


À Mon Seul Désir

by Nasserwraith



Category: Hellboy (Movies)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fairy Tale Elements, Fractured Fairy Tale, Nature Magic, Post-Canon, Post-Hellboy II: The Golden Army, Unicorns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2019-11-05 15:57:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 66,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17921897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nasserwraith/pseuds/Nasserwraith
Summary: In a continuation following the events of Hellboy 2 - The Golden Army, Prince Nuada is returned to life through the use of an alicorn (a unicorn's severed horn). Having long believed that the last of the unicorns had vanished from the world, the possibility of a living Mare spurs the first glimmer of hope the fae prince has experienced in long centuries of war and exile. Just maybe, the Fae World isn't doomed to final destruction after all.I do not own Hellboy or any of the characters used herein (save one). This is entirely an exercise in my own imagination.Rated M for later adult content (Specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter). Not Mary-Sue. Nuada/OC.





	1. Prologue - A Long Story Short (Rated G)

Nuada Airgeatlámh had ceased to exist. At least, in the conventional sense. The broken pieces that yet remained bore little resemblance to the Fae Prince that had stood in that very spot only a short time before. In life, neither Verrocchio nor Laurana would have been worthy of him but now, what crumbling flecks of statue that remained could hardly have been called Rossellino, whose knobbly-faced men of affairs still glower down from their sanctified pedestals in Rome. But for the Collector, no amount of contrapposto could make an absent man animate. Now, instead of the sounds of steel and the gnashing teeth of golden gears, there was only silence; the sad, sorry, and wholly inadequate end to a brutal legend. 

Getting the trinket-laden wheelcart up the stairs hadn't been easy and Bathmoora goblins weren't necessarily known for their tenacity, but a few dollops of adhesive sap to the ends of his Lofstrand crutches and the application of a few magnets to the back axle for spin control and the hall of the Golden Army lay ahead for the pickings. All battles have their leavings, and this one promised to be more profitable than most given the wrenching, clanging, screaming, of rock and ore he could hear from the passageway. But truthfully, he had never expected to the find the Prince. And certainly not to find the Prince dead. Somehow, despite the demon and the fire-starter and the fish, he had always thought Nuada more regal in capture, more substantial in exile. Not gone. Not like this.

He had almost split in two. His head lay several feet from his right arm which itself was more than half a meter from the rest of his torso. His expression remained frozen, pained in a way that the Collector could only wonder as to the gravity of his last thoughts; strangely preserved now without nuance in a ruined face of marble. The warm dry air of the chamber still hung heavy with powder and the little goblin imagined for a moment he could breath his Prince in. But as he did, the grief came; not unexpectedly but more forcefully than he had anticipated. These were not tears of remorse however, but the reality of loss, of the world growing just that much darker for the sacrifice of a Prince who had ended with little left to him but his Name. 

The Collector paused to pick up the Prince's arm and part of what must have been his shoulder. Placing them in his cart, he creaked towards a few more smaller pieces that had skittered away on impact. He heaved a pained sigh and wiped away the irritating moisture on his cheeks. At least the ruined remnants of the famed Golden Army would hardly comment on his trembling bottom lip or sour disposition as he gathered the remains, reassembling cleaved parts here and there almost absent-mindedly. The grief continued to roll through his chest with a kind of hiccupping quality, leaving his breath coming in fits and choking swallows. Perhaps what was worse was that, regardless of how much or how deeply he might mourn his Prince, it would never match the shame he felt at being able to do little else. 

Perhaps then it was a particularly odd moment that he remembered it. In the bottom of his cart, he remembered it. Traded so many years ago for the most unremarkable directions by a traveler who could never have possibly fathomed its worth, he remembered it. A single silver-white spire the length and breadth of an Angevin misericorde; an alicorn, he remembered it. It had come, if the traveler's tale was to be believed, from one of the last unicorns. While this kind of story had seemed to the Collector absurd, as no unicorn had been seen in this realm, or in any other, for almost three hundred years, rare cases of discovering the horns did remain. Hunted to extinction by Men and Angels alike, the alicorns were prized, fabled artifacts coveted by Spagyrics that could not be replaced by any known artifact or relic of myth. Sadly, neither could the unicorns. The sad, sorry, and wholly inadequate remnants of hope for a brighter future now appeared as dull twists of fibrous cast-off, recognizable only by the bits of light that could occasionally be seen through their strands and, of course, their capacity to heal any wound to creature, monster, or hero. The alicorn's light was never discerning.

He pulled it for the first time since he had acquired it from the false bottom of the tired old cart. Bits of mold and dirt still clung to the threadbare wrapping but he could feel it solid and warm in his hands. Trading for it had been his finest bargain and he was proud of it. It was the perfect insurance policy, an ace up his sleeve forever in service to a life philosophy of the 'just in case.' Alicorns, as it turned out, had but two powers: to cure anything poisoned and the power to heal where little or no hope remained. In short, that they might set to right what had once been wronged. So many times had he imagined it restoring his veteran wounds, giving him back his legs, making splendid flesh where there were now only scars and pocks. But he had never tried it. As it turned out, he was afraid. Just as often as he had imagined cavorting with his newly restored legs, he had also imagined someone taking them again. It was the same with his cuts and his bruises. They would only appear again and again after that. No, he had decided, he would keep it secret and when the time truly came, he would know when to use it. But the unfortunate truth of being in possession of an alicorn, is that one cannot save oneself from the ultimate wound. One cannot save one’s own self from death. 

He clutched the bundle tight. Looking back down at the Prince he wondered for a moment if those pained, and maybe now accusatory eyes, could actually see. Could he be judged by the gaze of his sovereign still, and be found lacking? Before he even realized the decision was made, he began gathering all the pieces of the fallen Prince, carefully arranging them on the floor as best he could in a manner of repose. Even in death, though, Nuada seemed hardly properly funerary. His hands were at his sides but palms upturned, his head tipped back, his face drawn and indignant. He made for a very resentful corpse. The Collector chuckled, how like the Fae Prince to be rebellious even in the midst of his own demise. 

Once assembled, the stone-statue body of Bathmoora's lost Prince finally lay in state; attended by his failed soldiers in this, a cathedral of irrelevant memories. Slowly, the Collector produced his prize. It was a fine thing to marvel at the unblemished beauty of an alicorn and he took several long moments to smile at its subtle twists and spirals and to trace his fingers through each winding flourish. Alicorns were each unique and he often thought of his as a field of golden wheat rolling and undulating in the winds of a summer storm. But at long last, he was ready to let it go. Laying the severed horn against Nuada's chest he drew in a breath.

"Ar chodail tú go maith? Tá sé in am éirí." (Gaelic - trans: "Did you sleep well? It is time to get up.")

As he had only once before, Prince Nuada Airgeatlámh came screaming into the world.

~...*...~

Nuada sat for a long time, unmoving. His eyes felt heavy and his breathing pained, but unhurried and even. The alicorn lay in his hands where it had fallen from his chest as he had attempted to reflexively leap to his feet, only to end up seated awkwardly side-ways next to two broken gear spindles and a melted copper shoulder-plate. The Collector hovered uncertainly near the stairs, where he must have fled following the stream of horrific cries and blinding shards of light that had heralded the Prince's return to the battlefield of his defeat.

He had been dead. He remembered it, strangely. His mind recounted the sound of his own heart slowing, the icy stillness that had begun at his core and crept relentlessly through him until his breath had failed him and the darkness finally overtaken him. He remembered the feeling as his knees had given out and how the weight of his own pain had finally pulled him to the ground. His sister's betrayal still curled low in his belly but as his sight had returned it was as though a new clarity had also followed him into those first few moments of air that still tasted of fire and blood. It didn't take him long to deduce what had happened. He knew what it was that now lay in his lap. 

He did not look to the small goblin that was still nervously rocking his hands on his crutches, unsure of whether he should speak or flee. Nuada thought that he should feel gratitude at that moment, a newfound joy at life returned. He thought he should feel a renewed sense of vengeance now that he lived and breathed once more. But it seemed that the poetry of hatred had deserted him as well, and an unfamiliar calm now kept him firmly rooted as he began to experience his own thoughts, unclouded, for what might have been the first time in a millennium.

He had courted war for the very reason such a relic now warmed his grave-cold skin. He had championed the dying cries of a green world, whose magic had been stolen away with each hunter's arrow and burned up with each relic-smith's forge. As industry and outrage had claimed the fields and the forests, the Old Gods had sunk into the Earth with a howl of desperation he had taken unto himself as a call to arms, but though the sun still rose and the moon still drifted aimlessly through the stars, he had not believed any hope for the kingdoms of the Fae had remained. Hope for vengeance, perhaps, but never hope for restoration. His was a war of revenge, not salvation. But an alicorn that still held the power to give life to the dead and hope to the war-weary, could only have come from a creature that still somewhere drew breath. An alicorn whose light still bloomed in the confines of a twisted horn, meant that the unicorn to whom it belonged had somehow escaped a final betrayal worse than his own. 

He looked down at the object now so entwined in his fingers, its soft sparkling light slowly fading back to a dull, white, stain. How long had she been hidden? Who could have taken her such that no word could reach him? Where had the unicorn gone?

He turned to look up towards the vacant dais. Nuala's body was missing, and so was his spear. Now at least he knew where to start.


	2. Chapter 1 - Mille Fleurs (Thousand Flowers) - (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Abstract: In a continuation following the events of Hellboy 2, Prince Nuada is returned to life through the use of the magic of an alicorn (a unicorn's severed horn). Having long believed that the last of the unicorns had vanished from the world, the possibility of a living Mare spurs the first glimmer of hope the fae prince has experienced in long centuries of war and exile. Just maybe, the Fae World isn't doomed to final destruction after all.
> 
> I do not own Hellboy or any of the characters used herein (save one). This is entirely an exercise in my own imagination.
> 
> Rated M for later adult content (Specific warnings at the beginning of each chapter). Not Mary-Sue. Nuada/OC.

There were sixty-seven necklaces like the one she wore, but this one was special. By all appearances it had likely come from China; a mass-market factory specializing in quick-molding cheap metals for sale in bargain bins and dollar stores across an all too complicit global market. A small pewter-like cage bent slightly at the base and two carousel horses suspended by wires within; she had worn it for over a decade with no real memory as to where it had once come from. Still, she only ever thought of it as a gift. Tiny filigrees along the canopy were badly worn but the faintest trace of decorative music notes could still be seen along the rounding board and the initials ALM carved into the scenic panels behind a tiny horse in full capriole. She tugged at it absently as she once again turned her attention down the hallway. The room at the far end was quiet for the first time in days.

It had arrived under the custody of B.P.R.D. two days ago. A strange thing, a marred silver spear no less sinister for having been plucked from the Giants Causeway following a decisive battle with their resident demon spawn Anung Un Rama. No, no, Hellboy, as she was repeatedly reminded. At least, that's what she had heard. She had also heard another name. It was Nuadha, the epithet Airgeatlámh, the Silver Hand, meant to honor the weapon that now sat tied to an iron cornerstone behind a Plexiglas vault door. Someone had told her that the enemy they fought had born that name as well. While that may have been true, that's not what they should have called the weapon he carried. She intuitively knew the names of things. She always had. And often and oddly to her own detriment but this one the officers of the B.P.R.D had never gotten quite right. 

The spear had another name, Claidheamh Soluis, Glowing Bright, but she felt that its wielder must have known well enough about the nature of names to never speak it where others could hear; hence the confusion. But the strange spear was only the first addition. Later that same day came a crumpled statue: a fair lady collapsed and unblinking with her hair tossed far over her shoulders and her hands laid out at her sides, fingers curled upwards. It was as though she had fallen and frozen in just such a way, so intricate were the details. She thought it a strange choice for a sculptor particularly in a medium of alabaster, which didn't seem quite appropriate for the somber subject matter. Stranger still that the agents clad in black suits were so quick to shut the delicate lady away in another vault further down. While the B.P.R.D. certainly had its taste for rare and exotic artifacts, she couldn't even begin to imagine what such a statue could offer their already rather bizarre collection; the veritable cabinet of curiosities that made up the Washington D.C. headquarters. She considered asking Abraham, as he was usually well versed in each item currently catalogued but something about his demeanor towards just this particular statue stayed her tongue. He seemed to cry (and yet she wasn't even sure he was physically capable of producing tears) as he visited the statue each morning and evening. Each time she saw him pass the statue's velvet-draped pedestal, she thought it was as though he stood vigil at a tomb.

Two days after that, everything changed.

~...*...~

It was the scream that woke her. A kind of gasping, choking, sound more like the first grateful breaths of a drowning than an actual shriek. She scrambled from her small bed and crept into the hallway, ducking back against a set of concrete pylons so as not to be immediately run over by a wave of agents and a few white-coated lab technicians. She peered out, thankful that the wide supports hid nearly all of her small stature. Everyone seemed to be gathering at the entrance to the statue's room and she watched as the agents hastily unlocked the vault door, pushing it aside against the pace of the automatic servos to gain entrance just that much faster. More agents quickly arrived, followed by more than a few of B.P.R.D.'s resident menagerie. She saw Hellboy and Liz, Abraham shortly afterwards, and finally Director Manning, the latter already barking orders that appeared to go largely unacknowledged. Barefoot, and clad only in a thin nightgown, she slid along the wall towards the commotion. For a moment, she thought she heard something like a sob, but it was quickly drowned out by exclamations of shock and cries of both terror and surprise from the assembled mass. Her brow furrowed and she briefly contemplated climbing onto one of the glass hallway display cases to get a better look. 

"Someone get a blanket! Quick!"  
"Where's Doctor Schulz? Someone get Dr. Schulz!"  
"Let me through! Out of the way!"  
"Oh my god, how is this even possible."

Reaching upwards towards a pipe along the wall just over her head, intent on pulling herself above the height of the crowd, she stopped short as a lancing pain unexpectedly tore through her head. She gasped as she fell back against the cool concrete, her hands flying to her forehead as a wave of nausea saw fit to accompany the searing heat making its way along her jaw and down into her shoulders. Thinking she might even cry out through the undeserved assault, she bit down on the side of her thumb just enough to keep her vision anchored to the present. For a moment, she thought she might faint. But just as it had come upon her, it left, the ringing in her ears fading to a dull throb before finally fading out all together. Dazed, she hugged the wall, wiping at her face in irritation as she tried to calm her breathing. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. As she still lingered in the hall, she absently checked herself for injury, but found nothing.

Suddenly, Abraham burst through the crowd and in his arms he carried what she thought must be a young woman in a flowing white dress, her face hidden in his shoulder and her arms wound tightly around his neck. As he passed by, she noted small white feet barely visible from beneath the hem of the sheer linen skirt. She also caught a glimpse of an unmistakable pattern of spirals and lines on pale hands, curving up and around an equally pale neck ending just shy of a delicately pointed ear. "Fionnuala Ní Lir Fiálainech," she whispered before catching herself, tilting her head towards the floor in momentary confusion and bringing her hand unconsciously to her tug at her necklace. She tried to shake the distractions from her mind. Was this the statue? Had the alabaster lady come to life? Was that why they kept it in a vault? Galatea and Pygmalion be damned if that didn't make any sense.

Cautiously, she followed the entourage parading down the hallway. Finally, clear of the main vaults, she ducked unnoticed into the library where Abraham and at least a half dozen others fussed about, doing everything from pulling books off of shelves, to lighting the central fireplace, to brewing tea. The lady now sat in one of the high-backed leather chairs, looking for all the world completely lost and bewildered. Her golden eyes darted back and forth surely in some kind of desperate attempt to take everything in. Abraham, for his part, remained firmly rooted at her side, speaking in a kind of low grumble while lightly palming first her cheek and then her trembling hands.

"You know what this means, Abe." Hellboy shouldered his way through the doorway, crossing his massive arms across his chest and setting his chin into a stern glower.

The room fell suddenly quiet as Abraham blinked up from the armrest, "Yes." He replied hesitantly, the shaking of his voice only partially due to the shock and stress of it all. "But.... Red....How?"

“How is the least of our concerns right now I’m afraid.” Manning interrupted. “If she’s back, you know who else probably is too. We need to…”

He never made it through the rest of his thought before the lady in the high-backed chair suddenly spoke up. “Kill me. Please.”

The room was momentarily aghast. “I do not understand now how this has come to pass, I do not know why I am restored but you can be most certain that my brother now breathes this life once again as well.” Her voice became emphatic, “I made my peace with the truth. I do not regret my actions and my decision was rightful. Please. I cannot endanger this world so again. I cannot be the reason for your deaths. I would have this moment be fleeting. I am grateful to see you all once more, but…. please….”

She trailed off, her face falling into her hands. The crowd erupted. 

“She’s right, we just can’t risk it…”  
“You CAN’T be serious! We’re not murderers!”  
“Hey, back off! Everybody calm down.”  
“If you think for one second I’m letting any of you….”

“It won’t matter.” Somehow she had managed to pick just the right moment, when the collective argument had paused to take a breath, to be heard above the din. The lady in the high-backed chair turned to her with a stunned expression. 

“It won’t matter.” She hastily repeated. “How do you know you won’t just come back again?”

She had pieced together the basics of the problem over the last several moments from several days’ worth of gossip and the uncontrolled outbursts of the milling assembly, though she was still unclear about the details. The alabaster statue was the lady in the chair; Nuala everyone called her (it was close enough). She was the one who had sacrificed herself to save the B.P.R.D irregulars currently gathered around her, somehow killing both herself and the enemy they had been sent to overthrow. Victory by suicide if she recalled correctly; so, her current suggestion probably shouldn’t have been as surprising as many were making it out to be. In the end, while she didn’t quite understand how this sad and trembling woman’s suicide had saved the day at that point, she really didn’t want to see it repeated right here in the library under the watchful eyes of St. Mercurius. The angel of two swords may have been a martyr but he had at least seen fit to earn the satisfaction of conquering his enemies first.

“She’s right.” Abe was quick to take advantage of the opportunity, implicitly addressing the group at large though keeping his attention securely on Nuala, “Without knowing how the Prince has managed to reverse his death, and consequently yours My Lady, I’m afraid that simply killing you again might not, uh, successfully end in the result you are inferring.”

Nuala seemed almost crestfallen, soft strands of hair catching on her lashes, wicking up tentative tears into tiny, dew-like, droplets. But before she seemed ready to completely dissolve, her eyes suddenly snapped up to the young woman who had spoken through the crowd. 

“I don’t recognize you.” She said by way of a question. With an occasion’s pause, Nuala finally took in the odd girl hovering near the edge of Abe’s overly large aquarium tank. Draped in a loose nightgown, her spindly frame was angular but proportionate. She seemed to be no more than a teenager, but her wide beryl eyes, thin tapered ears, and skin the image of white cracklewear immediately gave her away as something other than completely human. The exposed parts of her face and arms, covered in a delicate network of uncountable fine cracks and lines, had an almost gossamer quality, reflecting the filtered blue light of the water tank with bits of shimmer and tilted glow. Her snowy white hair was a bit of a mess, combined with the nightgown a likely result of being roused from bed unexpectedly, but still fell in ropy tresses and small braids to her waist. But most notably, as Nuala searched her face for any tell-tale fae trait she might recognize, she could also make out some kind of small, reddish, mark on the girl’s forehead hidden mostly under the hair that framed her face. Her fingers worried constantly at a small necklace throughout.

“Ailith.” She finally offered. “My name is Ailith. I saw you…. when you came in…” but before she could elaborate further, the room took over once again and she was dislodged from the conversation. By the time she (and almost everyone else) was ushered from the room, she surmised that B.P.R.D was going to be in lock down for a while and that the entire complex now awaited an assault by a magical army of some sort or another. Prince Nuada. That’s who they said was coming. They said he would come to retrieve his sister and his spear, if not to launch an all-out quest for vengeance against those who had stolen and destroyed his crown and therefore his chances for a decisive victory against the banality of the human world. And if he didn’t, they were going to find him. One way or the other, it was only a matter of time before he appeared.


	3. Chapter 2 - De Mal en Pis - (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 - De Mal en Pis
> 
> "From Bad to Worse"

It took almost 72 hours of near constant hallway stalking before Ailith saw Nuala again. Even then, she was usually attended by some combination of armed escorts, researchers, Abe, researchers and Abe. It wasn’t until Nuala had managed to slip out of a rapid succession of hushed meetings in the library’s main conference annex that Ailith found her chance. 

From a point near the brown Wright Ocean Floor globe, Ailith watched as Nuala, now clad in a pale blue serf-hooded dress, made her way quietly down from the upper balcony towards the safety of Bruttenholm’s massive mahogany desk tucked beneath, out of sight of anyone coming out of the conference doors above. The tattered Princess wasted no time in slumping wearily into the leather chair before a great sigh left her dragging the remains of herself into a small pile.

With little else to go on, Ailith opted for the concerned approach. “Are you ok?”

Nuala startled, the leather chair creaking through an unexpected swivel. But her reactionary terror was short-lived.

“Oh, I am sorry. I had not seen you there.” Nuala made to stand.

“No, it’s ok.” Ailith pushed up from her artfully arranged rug furrows and padded delicately over to the desk. “I was just returning some of the poetry books I borrowed and I got caught up in the Many-Colored Fairy books again. I never get to take them out so I have to read them here.”

“Colored Fairy books?” Nuala regarded her coolly.

“Yes.” Ailith looked down at the book in her hands as she started to fidget. “The Andrew Lang fairy books. They’re fairy tales.” She coughed. “From all over the world. But the copies they have here are really old and the bindings are starting to fray. See?”

She offered the book, yellowed pages peeking out from underneath a gilded blue linen cover with embossed lettering reading “The Blue Fairy Book.” As Nuala carefully examined it, Ailith continued.

“It has so many of my favorites; Why the Sea is Salt, Toads and Diamonds, The Brave Little Tailor, and Felicia and the Pot of Pinks.”

Nuala smiled as she gently placed the time-bent volume onto the desk. “You like fairy tales?”

The girl shrugged. “Sometimes. With everything that happens here, they seem like the kind of thing one should know.”

The Princess’s lips evened to a line. “And where do you come from? What brought you to this place?”

“Hmmm? Oh. I’m not really sure.” Ailith took a seat at the far end of the piles of desk papers on the lid of an old sea captain’s chest. She had told this story so many times before it was nearly automatic. “It’s all pretty dim. Sometimes I see fragments of what I think must be memories but then I start to think I’m just confusing them with dreams. Or maybe just scenes I made up in my own head. The only real concrete memory I have is from a few years ago, I think. There was a man in Rock Creek Park, he was shot by these two men trying to steal his wallet. His name was Tom, the man who was shot. I remember seeing him lying in the grass, he was bleeding and scared. I remember walking over to him and telling him not to be afraid, that everything was going to be alright. I’m not sure how I knew he was going to be OK but as I watched, I could see the blood that was spreading on his shirt was stopping, and then it was like it…. reversed, or something. It bled back just as it had come out. His shirt wasn’t even stained. I held his head in my hands but he kept telling me to run away, that the men who had shot him would come back. Even stranger, I remember telling him that they wouldn’t, that the men with the gun had angered the trees and that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not ever. But I don’t remember why I told him that or what I meant by it. I can only remember that it had something to do with the blood going back, something about blood and trees and the water from tears and something else. The last thing I can remember before here then was a light. There was a light in the trees and it was coming towards us. And then that’s it.”

She chuckled nervously under the unwavering gaze of the elven princess. “Or maybe I’m just too into fairy tales.” 

I vaguely remember coming here.” Ailith continued after a moment. “They said that an agent found me wandering in the park, blood all over my hands and my face. I was cut up pretty badly and I guess someone had called the police to report a strange, injured, girl hiding in the trees. B.P.R.D monitors all of those frequencies and I suppose it’s a good thing they got there first. I’m not really sure where I would have ended up if they hadn’t. I found out later that there really were two men dead in the woods. One was found wrapped in the roots of a giant oak tree, strangled. The second was somehow buried in its trunk, like the tree had just grown over him. I never found out if Tom was OK, though. The agents told me they never found anyone else.”

“And before that?”

“Nothing. There’s nothing before that.” She blinked rapidly in thought. “I mean, obviously there should be, but it’s just…. gone. Whatever it was. Whoever I was.”

Nuala studied the girl again, frustrated with herself that she could not tell what manner of fae she was. The Elves of Bathmoora, as the ruling class, had always been keen on knowing all manners, variations, and species of magical beings in their kingdoms but this one continued to confound her. She knew of many elfin creatures, some more in appearance like the elves of tradition and others less so, but she knew of none with crackled skin or any for whom the trees themselves might call upon Ogham itself to defend. She knew the signs of an ogam airenach, a Shield Ogham of The Trees Who Feed Upon Blood when she heard it. But such magic was unheard of in these times.

“And what about you?” Ailith countered with a wry smile. “What brought you here?”

“Abraham, apparently.” Nuala smiled dryly. “Before that, my brother. How much do you know of this story?”

“I know it was you who saved everyone in County Antrim. I know you killed yourself to do it and that your death somehow caused the death of your brother before he could…. destroy the world?”

Nuala nodded. “My brother and I are twins. For Elf-kind this is a most rare and mystic event. He and I are bound by a sacred link wherein we share all that we experience. Whatever wounds we suffer, we suffer together. Whatever hurts or violations are meted upon one of us, it is meted upon the other as well. That is why, in the end, when Nuada would not surrender, when he rose up from defeat to kill, filled with hatred and anger, I slew us both.” Sudden tears were quickly wiped away by the sweep of a lengthy sleeve. “It was the only way to end it. Or so, that’s what I had hoped.”

“So…. you came back…because he did?”

“That is the only reason I can think of. Nuada must have found a way to cheat his own death but I cannot even begin to imagine how. I cannot even begin to fathom the magic it must have taken to accomplish this and for that reason, I am afraid.”

Ailith shifted uncomfortably atop the chest. “I’ve only heard bits and pieces. I know that the spear in the other vault belongs to him, right?”

“It does. There are great legends regarding that spear, and legends upon legends of how my brother was found worthy to wield it.”

“But not anymore?”

“Oh no, he still is. But his worth is twisted now by anger. Ever since the Treaty of Caer Vevenir was broken, he has thought of nothing else but laying waste to all of humanity in revenge for the destruction of the fae world.” 

Seeing the young girl’s confusion, Nuala continued. “Long ago, there was an ancient war between Man and the Fada, the collective races of all the denizens of the magical realm. This war was started by Man's greed, his desire to consume everything in the world and claim it as his own. After the defeat of our forces at the Battle of Annwn, the master of the goblin blacksmiths offered to build my father Balor, the King, an indestructible mechanical army. My brother Nuada championed the plan and my father had them build the Golden Army, the Arm Órga. Humanity was devastated in the ensuing battles. There was so much blood, and so much death, it was declared that nothing would grow upon the battlefields for a hundred years and a day. My father was sick with guilt and he formed a new truce with the humans: Man will keep his cities and the Fada will keep their forests. My brother did not agree with the truce and left into exile shortly after. The magical crown that controlled the army, the Crown of Bathmoora, was then broken into three pieces, one going to the humans and the other two kept by the elves. My father was steward of the right half-arch, I was steward of the spire. It was my brother’s return in search of that crown that led to all this. And if he had succeeded, there would be nothing left of this city or this place. Nothing left of any of us at all, I feared.”

Ailith continued to fret pensively, her hand once again finding the necklace and rolling it between her thumb and forefinger. “Do you think they will kill you then?”

“I don’t know. When Nuada comes, and he will, they may yet again succeed in bringing him down in battle. If that is the case, it won’t matter what I think. If not, then I’m not sure what happens. He won’t stop, not ever, not until the world of mankind is utterly Undone. Or he is.”

Ailith felt a deep sadness well up inside her. A painful, suffocating, pressure closing around her heart. Tragic stories and fairy tales were one thing but she could feel acutely the desperation and despair that chained Nuala to her misery. More than that, she felt drawn to the sorrowful Princess; kin to her in a way. For the first time, Ailith felt the absence of her own past acutely. She wished she had something to offer, some knowledge or comfort to add, but there was simply nothing there to give. They needed more than a blank slate right now.

“When will he come, do you think?”

“Soon.”

~*~

And soon it was.

The anticipated assault came four days after the first snows of winter. It wouldn’t occur to Ailith until later that the rather scripted nature of the attack should have been suspicious. Looking back on it, that it would end almost as theatrically as it had begun could have easily been predicted. There was even a curious sense of warning, as Nuala had been able to predict her brother’s arrival several minutes before the first explosion. 

It began as shockwaves rocked the main port door. As sections of the walls began to separate, staff and residents of the headquarters below were quickly evacuated into the stone shelters beneath the main hall. But for all their planning and anticipation, the attack was more coordinated than any of them had initially conjectured. Even Abe and Hellboy seemed surprised at the ferocity of the offensive. The first wave consisted of swarms of small fae, tooth fairies and pixies armed with fire-hardened trunnels. Leading them was a small band of Boxwood kobolds and two Welsh Coblyns each dressed in brightly colored, needle-felted, jackets and Phrygian caps. But even before they had fully engaged the swirling horde, the second wave broke through the east wall. Consisting of organized troupes of orcish-like Hags and sorcerous Ljósálfar, they made beelines for the vaults, breaking locks and cracking hinge gears like glass. 

It was Abe who had first surmised that Nuada’s forces would attempt to make an immediate bid for the spear, and as such, the vault of Claidheamh Soluis was the most heavily fortified. But it proved to nearly be the B.P.R.D.’s undoing, as the fae army opted for a more concentrated attack on the main archive sections rather than making any kind of recognizable attempts to free the legendary weapon from its iron confines. It was all-hands-on deck, but despite her willingness to fight against the invasion, Ailith found herself relegated to support tasks, though not all that far away from the sounds of battle.

Nuala remained below along with the rest of the non-combatants. Clearly tense and nearly driven to fits with each passing onslaught, she regardless maintained her composure well enough to help the others load rounds of phosphorus, suspended silver, and wrought-iron bolas wiring to be delivered to the soldiers still holding out above them. Ailith cringed each time a runner arrived with spent ordinance. Despite having no memory of any life before her time in Washington D.C., she didn’t like the idea of such senseless violence and death, be it human or fae. She still didn’t quite understand everything she felt she needed to, but for the moment, in the heat of conflict, it all seemed to boil down to the fae out there and the fae inside here and whoever or whatever it was that stood between them. She wasn’t sure if the violence of the attack was made worse because Nuala was standing with them and not her brother or if this was just the inevitable backlash of the battle that had taken place in the Giant’s Causeway. No one was interested in explaining more to her and the politics of the secluded meetings leading up to this day still eluded her. It was frustrating beyond measure. She wished that she’d had the time to speak to Nuala again, but she never seemed to be alone long enough following their last meeting; once again immersed in hushed planning sessions for precisely the current moment. The only contact they’d had was a few fleeting but knowing nods as they passed one another in the tunnels. In the end, she still felt drawn into a conflict she was now subject to but had no real part in.

It was chaos.

Ailith glanced up from her assembly table for the hundredth time. Eyeing the distance to the spiral staircase at the far end of the stone cellar serving as their hideout. A fresh plume of dust and debris filtered down through the cracks in the door above.

“You can’t help them up there.” Nuala offered from the far side of the table. Ailith scowled.

“Why not? My hands are already raw from these horrid wires and I understand the basics of magic. It might not be anything more than a trick or two but it can’t be any worse than what they’re trying now!”

Nuala held back a pained sigh. “I know, I know it’s difficult but you must understand my brother is dangerous. He won’t spare you because you’re fae-kind as long as you stand between him and his prize.”

“Prize? So, you think he’s come for the spear then?”

The Princess gave an ambivalent shrug. “I can only hope that is all he seeks.”

Stress finally broke Ailith’s resolve. “Fine! Give it to him then! It’s his after all. Why are we even doing this?!?”

Troubled by this fit of temper, Nuala gave a firm response. “Because of what he will do with it once he gets it. My brother might be willing to pass over me in the interests of self-preservation, but do not be deceived! He does not mean to fight for the safe-guarding of our people, he means to bring the world down with them. This is not a war of righteous revolution, this is annihilation! He merely intends to be the last one to die.”

“They’ve broken through the operations agents!” A breathless Aodh burst in, rushing in from the stairwell with an armload of broken phosphorus canisters. Aodh was a young Changeling, if not a particularly bright one, who had been living under B.P.R.D. charge since his parents had inadvertently run afoul of the pair of Unseelie fae that had been in the process of exchanging the human baby for their own. This peculiar fact had earned him the nickname “Cowbird” at some point, now shortened to “Cowby,” but he never seemed to mind as long as he could make use of himself as a lab assistant or occasional ad-hoc cleaning staff.

Ailith winced through another pillar-shaking blast. “Did they break the vaults? How close are they?”

“I don’t know. Manning is redirecting everyone to the library though. I heard that the Prince appeared in there, wielding fire magic or something. There’s fire everywhere!”

“Cowby, this is no time for glee. People are dying up there!” They both ducked as pulverized stone and splinters of wood rained down from the ceiling. Several canisters, already fragile from overuse, clattered to the floor and broke apart. A series of screams echoed through the cracks from above.

“Auugh, I can’t take this!” Ailith screamed. 

Nuala grabbed her arm. “Ailith, it’s alright. Please, you must temper yourself. We need you.”

Ailith did everything she could think of: imagine a calming scene, sing her favorite song, remember her favorite poems and stories. Sourly, the only thing she seemed to be able to remember at the moment was Gailey’s sad tale of "Allerleirauh Reveals Her True Self to The Prince.” She cursed the obvious grasping nature of her mind’s choice but the strains and verses were already playing over and over on her tongue.

"I'd rather be mistaken for an animal.  
If you knew what I ran from,  
how my mother cursed me with golden hair, this face."

A chattering wail momentarily shook the flagstones. A stifled gasp churned through the group below.

"She left me a father obsessed with her image.  
I fear your eyes, just as I feared his.  
This coat offers shelter."

Ailith could feel the walls closing in on her. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t just an attack to retrieve a lost spear or a lost sister, for everyone above her, it was a last stand for any shred of hope that any future lay ahead at all.

"So you put me to work in your kitchen, assumed  
I was a magical beast, or a lunatic child,  
and I keep dropping hints in your soup:"

She dropped her work, the shards of metalwork and glass hopping away on the vibrations of battle.

"one night, a tiny spinning wheel,  
the next night, a gold ring  
trying to tell you who I used to be.

I can dance just as I used to dance,  
in dresses shining as the stars,  
in dresses pale as the moon,"

Suddenly, Nuala sobbed out a wrenching sound. As she fell to the floor, Cowby leapt forward to break the impact, catching the wounded Princess in his arms as he struck the paving shoulder first. A deep gash was quickly forming across her chest. From the tip of her collar bone on the right side, all the way down to her hip, the blood swelled into the fabric of her dress. 

“Nuala!” Ailith yelled, nearly tripping herself on the table leg in her haste to get to her.

“No!” The Princess cried in return. “No, this is as it should be. It is almost over.” The tears she shed were not entirely her own.

"but I am not the same princess.  
In older stories, where I am a saint,  
I never even get to the safety of you."

A second insult opened up Nuala’s left thigh. Biting back her pain, she barely noticed the third wound beginning to trace its way from her ear down her neck, snaking backwards towards her exposed shoulder blade.

Cowby was at an utter and helpless loss. Doing his best to stanch the wounds, he clearly could hardly believe his own eyes as new cuts and slices began appearing everywhere out of nothing on the frail body held tightly in his lap. 

“Nuala!” Ailith took hold of the Princess’s hands. “Nuala, what do I do?! How do I stop it?”

The lady was calm, almost a statue once again. “It’s ok.” She smiled through mourning eyes. “It’s ok, I’m ready. It’s going to be fine…. I….”

"My disguises fail. I am found by my father.  
Sometimes, he cuts off my hands;  
other times, he cuts out my tongue."

She didn’t stop. She didn’t think. She was driven by a force outside of her control.

“Wait!” Cowby managed before the girl vanished into the choking clouds and out of the small room. By the time the Changeling had figured out which direction she had gone, Ailith was already up the stairwell and half-way down the main corridor. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was that she had planned, but she hoped to all that was divine in the world that she would know what to do when the moment came.


	4. Chapter 3 - Le roi est mort, vive le roi (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 - Le roi est mort, vive le roi
> 
> "The King is Dead, Long Live the King!"

Finding the heart of the battle was really no trouble. No trouble at all.

Dust and screams spilled from every threshold as Ailith coughed her way through the labyrinthine halls of the upper quarter. Broken glass and broken bodies blended together into a mosaic of tiled carnage and she could do little more than nimbly pick her way from side to side as she followed the worst of the sounds. If she was being honest with herself, Ailith would have been grateful for the choking miasma of smoke and particulates because it constricted her vision to a singular point tunneling through the gloom before her and cloaked the pools of blood and gaping wounds in an obscuring grayness that spared her the shock of slaughter. 

A group of agents dropped to their knees up ahead and opened fire with a variety of weapons meant to target the most well-known weaknesses of Fae kind. Some of them shot iron bullets, others blessed silver, and one particularly large and gruesome blunderbuss took ammunition made of phosphorus and magnesium meant to ignite into a ball of unquenchable fire on contact with the target. It was usually kept for trolls, who otherwise possessed few known vulnerabilities. The agents made out with several rounds before the first of them fell; a bloody gash torn through his right leg. The second fared even worse, dropping to the ground with a scream as four small arrows landed squarely in his chest. The third and fourth leapt to their feet and began to retreat into the smoke, vainly attempting to use it for cover as a wave of Nuada’s army began to advance. It didn’t save them. An angry troll with a burning shoulder made quick work of men, weapons, and most of the opposite wall.

Ailith dodged rightwards and made for the doorway. It was then that she noticed their position. The fight seemed to have begun near the side entrance-way and had raged for some time down the main hallway. But it had not turned west to continue on towards the vaults that kept the spear nor had it continued north towards the library. Rather, she was now standing at the threshold of the foyer that led into the main lifts. Lifts which accessed only one part of the complex: the “dungeons.”

The Dungeon was the name that many of B.R.P.D.’s supernatural residents had given to the institution’s prison system. Below this floor lay the worst of the worst. Demons. Hags. Hellhounds. Wights and the Undead. And more than a few of the infamous Unseelie: the Fae who preyed upon Mankind with malice aforethought and often in some of the most horrific ways imaginable. Ailith paused at the entrance. Was this what the Prince wanted? What abominations could those vaults contain that would be more valuable to him than his own Claidheamh Soluis. She shuddered to even consider it.

And then she saw him; Prince Nuada. He was down but not felled; fighting from a prone position between Hellboy, who had him nearly pinned with the use of his large, brimstone, arm, and two agents wielding iron Shards; two of the last twisted remnants of Caladbolg, the Great Sword of Fergus mac Róich shattered into three pieces after the Cattle Raid of Cooley (unsurprisingly, she knew the Names of these and every weapon and object held in the B.R.P.D’s considerable treasury). Strangely, Nuada himself appeared to be unarmed and was taking to combat entirely through hand-to-hand techniques. In one particularly dexterous move, he managed to roll through a series of ill-timed blows and get to his feet before dodging a secondary attack by a Shard. In the following moment, Hellboy overcompensated and Nuada took the opportunity to land a heavy strike to the demon’s torso, forcing him back several steps. The Prince smiled, but not maliciously, and engaged again, knocking both agents into the far wall with a solid kick to the nearest one’s midsection. He then turned to taunt the demon for a second time.  
“Come to me.” He called, teasingly. “Unless you wish to yield now.”

Hellboy growled something incoherent and the crash of stone on metal recommenced.

As she watched, Ailith thought the Prince handsome but in a vexing way. Elven features obvious enough; a high brow scowling across an aquiline nose and a sharp profile widening at the mid-point and tapering to a broad chin. Long white hair darkening to the ends with tints of gold and red. Fair white skin complemented with black pigmentation charcoaling his eyes and mouth to highlight both the burning within his golden irises and the licking flames of his words. He was catching fire from the inside out. She imagined him consumed by hatred but beautiful in grief. 

More blows were exchanged and it quickly became clear to Ailith that both Hellboy and the agents were caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. They needed to fully defend themselves against the Prince’s considerable talent in battle, as well as attempt to subdue him, but at the same time they clearly intended to accomplish this considerable task with as little injury to Nuada as possible; pulling blows or angling a jab when a fuller strike might have ended him. It was also obvious that their elven opponent had already sustained several serious injuries and had been bleeding heavily for many minutes. Furthermore, the fatigue and strain were beginning to show in the weight of his movements and the weakening of his defenses. However, Nuada did not appear to be suicidal and certainly didn’t seem to be attempting to get himself killed even though he and his companions were vastly outnumbered if only potentially outmatched. It was all so much more like a gruesomely coordinated dance than an actual fight, with neither side especially willing to put the full force of their capabilities into play against the other. But then, the Prince suffered a misstep. Choosing to avoid a wide swing of Hellboy’s arm resulted in Nuada being forced to evade the demon’s bulk but as he did so, one of the Shards found its mark, sinking into his back before he’d even noticed it was there.

Banal iron met magical skin and the Prince screamed in pain, finally falling to his knees as the startled agent (who had not at all expected to land the hit) reflexively pulled the weapon back. Hellboy angrily glowered over Nuada, shouting at him to stay down, all the while imperceptibly fretting at the thick stream of blood that slid from the corner of the Prince’s mouth and began to flow down his neck. Ailith almost leapt free of her own skin at the sight and, no longer content to watch the tragedy unfold from the sidelines, darted forward.

“Stop!” 

No one heard her in the din. She was jostled forward but could make little headway without climbing over a kobold’s head.

“STOP!”

Hellboy was the first to notice her. “What the…?”

The small, fae, girl stumbled out of the skirmish and ran over, “You have to stop! You’ll kill the Princess!” She yelled.

Hellboy blustered. “Hey! Get outta the way! Are you nuts?”

She held her ground, fitting her slight frame between the one she still knew as Anung Un Rama and the injured Nuada, whose shallow breathing was more an indication of his deep wounds than any kind of physical exhaustion.

“You can’t kill him!” Ailith pleaded. “Please!”

Hellboy growled and dropped his arm, shoving something distinctly goblin-like off its feet and into a rope trap, where it continued to wrestle with more agents pouring in through the doorway.

“Eh, I’m not gonna kill him! See? He’s down.” Ailith turned to the Prince and knelt next to him as he fell back onto the metal slats of the floor. “Ya got that!?” Hellboy ignored her and simply yelled past her. “You stay there this time!”

To Ailith’s surprise, Nuada actually smiled through a somewhat painful chuckle in response but he did not attempt to rise. Instead, he looked up at her thoughtfully, searching her face with an uncomfortably discerning glare before tapping his fingers thrice on the floor. Ailith pressed her hand to his chest, the flow of blood only barely slowing. His rapped his hand again and went still, observing her curiously through guarded eyes.

With the Prince defeated, the raging battle ended almost as suddenly and explosively as it had begun. Several fae combatants simply vanished into thin air while many others turned and fled out of the breaches in the walls that had heralded their initial arrival. The dead were dragged off into fissures and holes in the floor and ceiling. Shrieks of resentment and rage flitted off and creatures great and small abandoned the complex and, to the surprise of many, their sovereign. Though Hellboy and the agents stood ready, none of the soldier-fae attempted to approach the fallen Prince nor did they make any motions meant to steal him away. Within moments, the halls and rooms were eerily silent.

“Indeed, I am again defeated, Demon.” Nuada finally replied. “I surrender.”

~*~

His wounds were critical at first, though the many men in white coats kept him locked away for most of those early hours following the calamity. But, in short order, it was clear that Nuada would survive. When the Prince finally awoke, the medical lab had become a cell, the white lights of medicine darkened to the blue ambiance of confinement with his spear mounted to the opposite wall to taunt him there. For Ailith, they made for a rather melancholy display of wonder, both he and the Silver Hand. Each in his glass and iron prison. Another case closed, labeled, stamped, and neatly filed away. The Prince was resting now and quiet for the time being, though this did not, in any way, reduce the staggering variety of restraints and precautions laid throughout his prison. Even in repose, Nuada was about as neutralized as a king cobra.

Ailith had rushed back to Nuala as soon as she had been able and was greatly relieved to find the Princess in good spirits, if somewhat bewildered. As the hours began to drag on, Ailith also surreptitiously found Nuala to be a good measure for monitoring Nuada from afar, since no one but Hellboy, Abe, and the doctors had been allowed to see him following the battle. As Nuala recovered from the shared wounds of her twinhood, Ailith had done her best to relay her version of events leading up to Nuada’s capture, detailing as much as she could remember about the army and about her brother.

“And then he just…stopped.” Ailith shrugged. “I mean, he was hurt but it’s more like he didn’t seem to want to fight anymore. So, when the agents came and tied him up, he just kind of let them. It was weird though. He kept turning to look at me, even when they were wrapping this metal cord around his wrists which I imagine had to be awful, he didn’t even flinch. Just…hmmm, I don’t know. It’s like he was watching me. Waiting for something to happen. Like I was going to do something.”

“Did he say anything?”

“After giving up? No, not really. Just something fast. Sounded like…ummm…Ee-hah wah?”

Nuala raised an eyebrow. “What was that?”

Ailith paused and attempted the pronunciation again. “Something like, Eee-haa-waa. Sorry, I didn’t really catch it.”

“Oíche mhaith.” The Princess repeated.

“Yeah, like that!” Ailith smiled. “Uh, what does it mean?”

“Good night.”

“Good night?” The smaller girl puzzled. “Why would he say ‘good night’?”

Nuala scowled and pulled the blanket of her sick-bed over her shoulders.

“If all that you say is true,” She began, “then I am greatly concerned.”

“Why is that?” Ailith asked as she re-wet a small linen cloth and continued to clean the angry wound on Nuala’s back.

“My brother has never been one to submit willingly and what you describe sounds more like he allowed these men to take him. This is not victory.”

“But why would he do that?”

“I don’t know. Nuada is cunning and it may yet prove to be a dangerous deception on his part. I will speak with him in a day or two.”

“Will they let you see him?”

Nuala smiled. “My brother and I cannot truly be kept apart, Ailie. Not for any length of time anyway.”

Ailith nodded and looked down at her hands. She bundled up her courage and shifted around to face the Princess.

“Do you think I could meet him?”

Nuala regarded her coolly. “Why would you want to do that?”

The girl shrugged. “Curiosity, I guess.”

“Hm.” The Princess concluded. “We will see.”


	5. Chapter 4 - J’y suis, j’y reste (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 4 – J’y suis, j’y reste
> 
> “Here I am, here I remain.”

Nuala stood before the glass prison with an air of calm serenity. She faced her brother, and he her; less than four actual feet apart all told but with a gulf as wide as the universe between them.

“Hello, sister.”

She was actually somewhat surprised that he chose to speak first. To her understanding, he had not spoken at all since his capture, though that should not have been shocking to anyone. Prince Nuada did not make a habit of parlaying with guards and he certainly didn’t have the patience to deal with midlevel negotiating. Moreover, she found his entire demeanor astonishing. In the dim, ethereal, lights of the vault, he appeared meditative; cast in a soft blue glow that accentuated his sharp features but obscured the rest of him in the gloom. Spending his time in silent contemplation or engaging in a variety of martial katas, he kept his senses and strength honed and ready but he did not attempt to escape the confines of the room nor did he rail against the walls or window. What had previously been a tense, vengeful, mien was now relaxed, almost agreeable. His eyes were no longer stained with the red flush of hate nor did they retain the golden glimmer of barely repressed rage. Instead, he regarded her with an amber gaze reminiscent of their youth; before war and death had stolen all the joy from their lives.

He had arrived dressed in his usual black knee-length court coat and knotted leather armor, long boots, and red sash, all of which he still wore. Though, he had forgone the usual seal of the Tree of Bathmoora at his waist in favor of a whetstone torque pin she had never seen before. It was a simple ornament, more functional than anything else, but she found the pattern on the stone odd. Black, vein-like, markings woven across a marbled surface and set in a thick golden circle. The tarnish on the outer edge belied its age. It was not the sort of thing he had ever been inclined to wear before and it didn’t suit him now.

“Brother.” She finally replied.

“I figured you would come sooner or later.” He began to idly pace the length of his cell.

“Yes.” The Princess sighed and tugged at her sleeves. “There are some things I wish to ask you.”

She thought she could almost detect a smile. “Ask then.” He rejoined. “And if it pleases you, start with the obvious.”

Nuala took a steady breath and glowered at him. Her brother, though noble and dignified, was endlessly difficult and she was not sure she trusted him to answer her truthfully in this matter. Unfortunately, that they were also almost certainly being watched through the closed security camera system didn’t instill much confidence, either. What he might otherwise have revealed to her in private would probably not be spoken aloud here.

“How have we come to live again?”

He stopped but did not turn. “I was blinded.” He said to no one in particular. “I did not see. And for that, sister, I am sorry.”

Nuala was stunned. Never, in their many passing centuries, had she ever heard her brother apologize so readily. Altogether, death had certainly made something new of him. He turned on his heel and met her again at the glass.

“I was awakened. At first, there was nothing but silence and emptiness until I heard a great shout in the distance. And then, it was as though I were being born again. Heat and light everywhere around me and pain I have never felt the likes of before. Not even in dying. Then, I realized that the shout was mine and the flames I felt consuming me were the first sensations of blood reclaiming flesh from stone.” He raised his hands from his sides and calmly observed them. “I began to move, to feel, to thirst in a way I did not think I would again. I felt my heart begin to beat and all the while the pain seared through me, it was as though the chaos and confusion in my mind were also burning away. I remembered myself but I was not the same as I was before. And I lived.”

Nuala’s hand fluttered to her mouth to stifle a gasp. “But how is this possible, brother? There is no magic like this in all the world and no technology of Men, either. We were destroyed!”

“Yes.” He rounded on her suddenly. “And by you, of all people!”

“There was no other way!” She snapped. “You would not have had it. You would not have accepted any submission other than death. Be not the harbinger of revenge only because it was I who finally gave it to you.”

“Revenge?” He countered, tilting his head predatorily. “Is that what you think I have come here for?”

“Why else would you have led the assault?” She challenged.

His voice went low, almost quiet. “Because I am bound by my Oath to find and defend her. I am bound by the threads of the Arboreal Tradition, as are you. Bound to shield and protect the Court of the Sun for all eternity, until the end of time and place itself. Orbis Alius, Aos Sí.”

Nuala regarded him as a madman and thought, in that moment, that rather than cleansing him of his vengeance, death had rendered him insensate. She understood his words, but his meaning was impossible. The Court of the Sun had set millennia ago and there simply were no Aos Sí, no ancient ancestors left.

“There is magic yet in the world that grows in the roots of Old Dair, sister. Yggdrasil and the Wells of Fate in the Urðarbrunnr do not lay barren. Something yet remains.”

“You are making no sense, Nuada.” The Princess argued. “You speak as if the Old Magic were still among us, when all that has come to pass in our time makes it certain that it is not!”

Nuada straightened and gazed impassively out of the glass at his sister.

“I do renounce my claim to life, be it no longer mine.” He recited.

Nuala took a step back. As any royal would know, these first words of the Caomhnú Geas; the Oath of Protection, signified the creation of an unbreakable vow which could, given its power, rain down destruction onto those who would violate it and, on occasion, those who had even witnessed it.

“By day or night, in twilight or in morning, clothed or naked, in Threshold or in Wild…”

“Stop! Nuada!” She slammed her hands up against the glass in a vain hope to disrupt him. “What are you doing!? You cannot make this vow. This is Geas. It is insanity! It could kill you!”

The elven Prince did smile then. “The vow has already been made.” He replied. “There is only one Magic that brings life to the Undone. There is only one answer to the question you so indelicately speak. You know this! There is only one possible reason that you and I endure!” he advanced on the barrier between them. “Tá an Aon-bheannach ina chónaí!”

The Princess choked and turned, letting the first tears fall unforced to the floor as she put what little distance she could between the two of them. His words cut her. Not in insult but in implication. If what he said was true, then the Time of Trees had not yet passed, despite what their current circumstances would suggest. The roots of Magic had only grown deeper. The War of Man had not been the apocalypse her people had long believed it to be nor, as it might seem, were the first snows of Winter upon them. A dark age almost certainly, but by no means the end. If what he said was true, there was a Unicorn in the world.

But how could such a thing be? And yet, here they both were.

She looked back at him, still inches from the glass, his face now dark with passion and his eyes bright with conviction, filled with an ardor that she had long thought bereft of him. She tentatively approached the cell once more.

“If my question is so trifling to you, brother, then why have you come here? Seek out this miracle if you have proof of it.”

“That is precisely what I now do, sister.” He countered. “She is the reason we breathe again and it is she that I have come for. I think you know of whom I speak. I owe her a life boon. And so do you.”

~*~

Ailith was morose. For three days she’d been ignored. Except for Nuala, of course, but with the new flurry of planning and preparing since the battle and the Prince’s capture, she’d barely seen the elven maiden for more than a few minutes at a time. It was something she had grown used to, however. She could often go unnoticed for weeks before anyone seemed to feel her absence. At first, she had taken it personally, thinking her wardens thoughtless and uncaring, but after a while she had learned that this wasn’t precisely the case. For whatever her Fae heritage might be, it must have come from something Shadowed or, she shuddered to think it, Unhallowed. Such Fae often possessed the capability to go unseen, even in a crowd, when they wanted to. Her abilities were not quite so pronounced but she was aware that her presence in a room was often inconspicuous and that few people ever remembered if she had turned up somewhere or not. That is, until she spoke. Calling attention to herself by way of yelling or speaking someone’s name always seemed to break the spell and get everyone’s attention. At least, for a moment.

Now, she intended to put the vagaries of her puzzling existence to a little good use. Ahead was the Vault and beyond the great spinning and locking doors, the cell that held Nuada Airgeatlámh. She had observed quite a few people going in and out over the past day or so. Abe Sapien, twice now. Director Manning and Johann Krauss. Nuala. But she could not suppress the urge to see him again for herself; this tempestuous elf whom everyone spoke about both reverently and irritably. 

On quiet toes, she stole down the hall. The agents in the hallway took no notice of her and she slid past a few large armament cases to pass beneath the mystic markings scribbled over the archway; markings that ensured (in theory) that Nuada and his spear would not be able break free of their imprisonment easily, even if they were to somehow escape the physical confines. 

From there she stepped through the hydraulic porthole, which usually sat open when scheduled visitors were expected. A few scraps of linen bandage and a stray bag of lavender and yarrow informed her that the medics, and likely Nuala, had already been present today and were, perhaps, soon to return. She stopped at the entrance to the vestibule and took in the cell block itself. The large metal room was bisected by a thick, glass, wall down the center to create the prison itself across the back and a viewing room of sorts at the front. It also ensured that every movement or position the Prince might be in could be readily observed and that he would have no access to isolated shadows where he might work unknown trickery. The lights were kept low and tinted a sea-foam blue, but why that was she had no idea.

His back was to her. As she drew closer, she noted that Nuada appeared to be concentrating on a basin of water but whether he was indulging in some nefarious scrying or simply lost in thought was unclear. She slowed her approach and was mere feet from the glass when he suddenly tensed, cocking his head to the side pensively.

“There are not many in this world, Man nor Fae, who can sneak up on me.” He stated. “I commend you.”

She coughed nervously, almost embarrassed at the fact that she had been so caught up in watching him that she had not thought to politely announce her presence, at the very least. It never paid to be rude, after all.

“Hi.” Was all she managed in reply.

He turned unhurriedly. It was then that she realized that he had been washing a wound on his hand. One which he was now carefully wrapping in the provided bandage and poultice. She recalled Nuala favoring a similar injury on the day before yesterday but it hadn’t seemed to her quite as severe as the one the Prince now tended. The nature of their shared injuries was apparently more complicated than she had thought.

“What can I do for you, my Lady?” 

The honorific surprised her but not as much as the gentle, almost formal, bow he offered after it. She might almost have accused him of making fun of her if not for the continued calm regard. For someone so notoriously blood-thirsty, she thought him rather mannerly. She started to worry absently at her necklace.

“Nothing.” She realized she wasn’t really all that sure what she wanted to say to him. “I mean, I was just…worried. If you were alright.”

“How is my sister?”

“Um. Fine. I guess?”

“Then you can be assured that I am well. Anything that might befall me will certainly make itself known through her as well.”

Ailith glanced down at his hand. He followed her gaze.

“A disagreement with my captors.” He answered. “But nothing you need worry about. It will heal.”

An uncomfortable silence fell.

“I know who you are!” She blurted out suddenly. “I mean,” she scrambled to pass off the outburst knowingly. “I know your name.” 

“I’m sure you do.” He finished wrapping his hand before taking a seat on the short pallet bed in the center of the cell. “Is that what you’ve come to tell me?”

She scowled at him. It wasn’t as if he was being purposely obtuse but she had the distinct feeling that he was not saying something he meant to. It hung in the air of the room with a palpable tension.

“No, I’m…pretty sure you know your own name.” She huffed. “I was curious. There was a big fight and then everyone just kind of…stopped. And now everything feels like it’s on edge. It’s like we’re all just waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one even knows why you’re here.”

“I’m looking for someone.” He acknowledged forthrightly.

“I…oh.” She continued to fidget with her necklace. “You came back for Nuala?”

“I don’t have to look for my sister. I know where she is.”

He was not helping.

Ailith took a deep breath and glanced back at the doorway. Not hearing any incoming voices or the sounds of others in the hallway, she pressed on.

“Ok. So. Who are you looking for?”

He smiled at her. A light, questioning, expression that was almost endearing. “What is your name?”

She bridled a bit at the change in subject and wondered for a moment whether it was wise to answer him. 

“Ailith.”

“And how did you come to be in captivity, Ailith?”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not in…captivity.” She replied. “I came here on my own.”

Nuada remained unperturbed. “And for what reason did you come here?”

She wasn’t sure she liked this line of questioning but his tone was amiable and he had done nothing to imply hostility.

“I’m…” She paused. “Not really sure. Better than being lost in the woods, I guess.”

He nodded, massaging his injured hand in his lap. “And your home?”

“I don’t remember. That’s why I’m here, really.” She shrugged. “I don’t know where else I would go right now and neither does anyone else, apparently.”

Nuada did not reply.

“And it’s nice.” She continued conversationally. “I have a room and there’s the whole complex to explore. And the library. All kinds of music and all the books I want to read. It could be worse.”

He took a brief look around the cell. “Yes, I imagine so.”

She had a thought. “Do…you want me to bring you something? It probably gets pretty boring in here after a while.”

“If you would like.”

...this is how time passed; from hours to days, and from days to weeks. And in that time, she learned that he quite enjoyed Coleridge and Longfellow or an afternoon of passable Dickenson or Browning. She divined something of a soft spot for Eugene Fields and that he hated Wadsworth. Sometimes she would even temper a more volatile evening with Rumi or Tagore (whose cadence he seemed to like) or gleefully gesture her way through Shakespeare in such a manner as she was certain that, once or twice, he had even laughed. In this regard, Twelfth Night was a far better bet than Midsummer Night's Dream, as he could never stop correcting her about the peculiars of Robin Goodfellow. One very late evening, far too distracted to sleep, she had chosen to introduce him to Bram Stoker and as such, the titular Dracula. It was almost a success if not for his lengthy and detailed critique; one that took nearly the entire length of dawn and most of the early morning hours as well. This is how she learned that, for an immortal, Dracula's ability to cogently operate within short-term historical narratives was rather abysmal. Or something to that effect. "Temporal chauvinist" was the term he used. Perhaps Victorian horror fiction as a whole was really not the best choice for him in the end.

Outside of their insular world, winter was slowly turning to spring in Washington D.C. and as the first two weeks passed, all of B.R.P.D seemed to be breathing a slow sigh of relief. Prince Nuada was a model prisoner. He was generally compliant with the demands of his capture and had not, as far as anyone could tell, made an attempt to escape. Nor was he inclined to harm any of the guards posted to his door or the medics who still occasionally came to treat the last of his remaining wounds. The only point of contention that lingered was between him and his sister, who continued regular visits even though all they did was argue. And since most of it was carried out in the Ancient Gaelic tongue of Bathmoora, no one was completely certain as to what it was that they were arguing about. Unfortunately for the broader administration, whenever they did, neither was Nuala forthcoming on the subject matter. 

Ailith, for her part, had come to look forward to seeing Nuada whenever she could. He might have been a captive audience but he was always an enthusiastic one. Nuala seemed to be avoiding her, for the most part, preferring to spend her time with Abe or alone in the reading rooms above the library. She and the Princess spoke only briefly when they did encounter one another and though she was always decorous and sincere, Nuala had little to say to her on the current situation. Instead, she usually made her pleasantries, asked after Ailith’s well-being, and then took her leave. And so, Ailith found solace, and rather unexpected companionship, with the Prince. They occasionally read together and discussed their interpretations or, from time to time, she was able to convince him to speak of the Fae, of the Kingdom of Bathmoora, or of events in his life; though the latter was quite seldom. 

On one particularly memorable evening, she had even, somehow, gotten him to describe his father’s court in the ancestral lands of what was now County Antrim. It was, unfortunately, the last time he would do so, given their exchange.

“Wait.” She had said, looking up from the illuminated Book of the Dun Cow in her lap. “But if the King is dead, doesn’t that mean that you’re King?”

“No.” 

Had she detected the edge of the sorrow in his voice, she would have chosen her next words more carefully.

“Is it because you’re twins? Is there something wrong with that?”

He sighed heavily and took several moments before responding.

“I am guilty of the sin of patricide. I cannot assume a throne I have dishonored.”

Ailith stared silently forward, cursing herself and wishing in that moment she could revoke everything she had ever said that gave weight to the mourning that consumed him.

“It would not matter anyway.” He continued, idly waving his hand about. “The Crown of Bathmoora is destroyed, and with it, the sovereignty of command. The seat is empty and the line is at its end.”

She wanted to protest but he would not elaborate on it any further. After that, he did not speak of his family again.

He was, however, exceptionally well-versed in history and philosophy and she loved to listen to him talk at length about subjects he clearly had had a passion for at some point in time before this one. Nuada also treated her with unfailing kindness and seemed genuinely interested in her thoughts and experiences. Which made Ailith somewhat sad that she could offer so little. She continually reminded him that she had no memory of her time before B.R.P.D. and that all she had retained of her former life was her name and a cheap carousel necklace. But he was patient. Patient beyond all creatures she had ever met before and when it was time for her to leave each day, he always asked when he would see her again.

It was, for this and other reasons, that she found Nuala’s terror one rainy spring morning, almost four weeks to the day of their awakening, to be so startling.

It was just before dusk when the Princess rushed into the library, frantically turning around and around and she tried to locate the pale, crackle-skinned, girl.

“Nuala?” She called, rising from the stacks near the hearth.

“Ailith!” Nuala raced to her side and took hold of her wrists with frightful urgency. “There you are! You must come with me. Come with me now, please!”

Ailith did not hesitate to follow her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“You must stay away from my brother.” She demanded, breathless with panic as they emerged from the library vault. She then pulled the other towards the far outer doors. “You must get out of this building and stay as far away from Nuada as you can! Run, Aon-bheannach! You are in danger! Tá sé ag teacht!”


	6. The First Interlude - (Rated G)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first interlude, wherein we see what is going on elsewhere in the city at the same time.
> 
> (I honestly wasn't expecting this to turn into such a project! But, we'll see how far I can get.)

_Meanwhile, somewhere else in Washington D.C._

The muted metallic jingle of keys against a lock served as a modest herald for Nicholas Cooper's return home. He slipped through the doorway of the rowhouse and eased the front door shut behind him, moving on quiet routine, seemingly unaware of another’s presence in the room despite the ominous shifts in shadow and gloom that indicated otherwise. 

Scuffing snow from his shoes onto the doormat beneath him and brushing the errant flakes from his glasses and tweed coat, Cooper broke the silence with a casual remark.

"...You're looking dour."

The shape at the far end of the living room stirred from its perch somewhere in the deep spaces of the overstuffed chair. What, at first, appeared to be little more than a rumple of black cotton fabric and a pair of desperate-looking Doc Martens slowly revealed itself to be a familiar friend and fellow mage, his normally jovial expression set in a mirthless glare. Though they did not often move in the same circles; seeing as Cooper practiced the Hermetic Tradition of Magick and his visitor had always been decidedly necromantic, both still appreciated the intellectual accomplishments of the other. The necromancer, a sallow-looking fellow with closely-shaved dark hair and sunken eyes who currently went only by the name Solidus, watched Nicholas' arrival with tense patience before acknowledging him in a flat tone.

"Pardon the intrusion, I do apologize, but I'm afraid this isn't a social call."

Nicholas inclined his head to the side in a token gesture of interest, his voice adopting a similarly business-like monotone.

"It’s no concern, you're certainly welcome for conversation's sake."

He continued on his simple routine as he spoke, drawing a glove from either hand, one finger at a time, before stuffing them in their respective coat pockets.

"You'll pardon the loaded question, but what I can I do for you?"

"As much as I'd rather not," the necromancer continued, "I'm calling in a few favors."

Solidus shifted uncomfortably, settling one foot tentatively over the other.

"The denizens of this city are moving, of the more mythical kinds I mean, and I'm afraid that my own expertise in the realms of theoretical chicanery isn't sufficient for the issues at hand. I need the benefits of a second mind, one more...Medieval than mine." The sidelong smile held little humor.

A considerable amount of effort went towards keeping Cooper's face from betraying a smirk. Instead, he simply cocked an eyebrow in response.

"Go on."

Solidus slowly leaned back into the chair, letting his form sink into the cushions with a heavy sigh. His expression became suddenly wistful, distant.

"Ages ago, I used to sit up late nights with the texts of Hermes Trismegistus and The Polymath, Imhotep. I got to know them so well it was almost as though we were gathered together in a sort of coffee chat, if you could call it that. Trismegistus was so...complicated, one layer of thinking overlapping another layer overlapping another. Like a dozen minds all thinking at once about a hundred things no one else could even conceive of. It took me almost a month to figure out even why he was called the Thrice Great. Do you know why, Nicholas Cooper? I didn't. But it was his mastery of Necromancy first, that was the first great. Then Magick, the second great. The third? Glamoury. But why would he do that, I asked myself? I couldn't figure it out. Why would such a magus, the founder of Hermetic Magick even, need the mystical wisdom of fae magics? What use would he have for mere illusion and trickery? Then it hit me...the source of the magic...he needed access to the fae themselves. And why do you think he needed it, Nicholas? What was his reason?"

If Nicholas Cooper found the sudden direction of this conversation startling, he didn’t show it.

"I'm afraid Glamoury isn't my area of expertise. I imagine it would suggest the fae are capable of something that neither blood nor death magics can accomplish - a narrow scope, to be sure."

The heavy coat slipped from Nicholas' shoulders with a shrug. He turned to hang it in a nearby coat closet, voicing his thought process as he went.

"From what little I understand, it's a business of riddles and stories, yes? Inspiration and creativity and realms of thought. Fantastic beasts and legends. Brothers Grimm and all that."

Pausing to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose with his index finger, he took a few steady strides across the room and found a seat opposite his macabre company.

"Though, Trismegistus was hardly the type to dally. Knowing him, I would presume that there's some sort of bridged gap behind it all. Some final piece to the magical puzzle. A grand unified magical theory, or some such. Am I far off?"

The mischievous glimmer that lit the eyes of the necromancer pulled his otherwise gaunt features into a sinister smile. Leaning forward, he teetered precariously at the edge of the cushion.

"Oh, Trismegistus, complicated theoretical conceptualist that he was, never set out for any kind of grand unified theory of anything. He thought the entire framework too simplistic. Something about 'unaccountable variation' or some similar quarrel."

Solidus shifted in his seat, waving his hands absently around his head, the familiar jovial enthusiasm deeply inherent to his rather odd personality once again beginning to color his words and gestures.

"No, no, but 'final piece to the magical puzzle' might not be such a bad way to put it. He found something, Nicholas. Something he shouldn't have. Something Glamoury was never meant to reveal to the world."

His voice, dropping to a near whisper, became suddenly grim and tense.

"He called it, Could've Been."

A dozen vivid thoughts and memories compressed themselves into a crease in the younger mage’s brow, like a tiny crack in the mask of his composure.

"I'm terribly afraid I know precisely what it is to which you refer. But, by all means, expound."

Solidus kept his voice low in deference to the gravity of his words.

"Hermes the Thrice Great, the progenitor of your Tradition, believed that all magic was in many ways, as you put it, grandly unified. Not in the sense that all magic comes from the same place or is made of' the same stuff or anything like that, both you and I know that's complete nonsense, but in that magic continuously flows through a kind of interregnum in reality. And all foci of magic, whatever suits you, words, gestures, items, relationships, what have you, all have properties that allow us to.... mmmmm...bring it into being, so to speak. Shape it into the confines of what can be real. Follow me?"

Cooper allowed himself a polite chuckle and offered Solidus a small grin in turn, his tone knowing rather than mocking.

"You're describing will-working and the principle of sympathy. Yes, I follow you."

Solidus nodded happily, seeming to enjoy the fact that his compatriot clearly didn't need the basic lessons in magical theory he had become tragically used to reciting every time a discussion such as this one presented itself.

"It might have come off as mere wordplay at first, but Hermes faced a problem. One that somehow frightened even him in the end. His personal texts, humorously I might add, often contain some version of the phrase "magic isn’t real." Meaning, I thought, that it was easy to dismiss magical events because people didn't believe in things that didn’t already exist in reality. But now I think that he meant that word, 'real,' differently. Magic begins in the realm of the 'unreal,' the realm of pure potential. We pull it from this potential, shaping it into the actual, to suit our needs. But Hermes discovered that there was a place where the unreal crossed the threshold into the real at the moment of conjuration, a place that doesn't exist, but a place of pure potential constantly under the continuous assault of the laws of the 'real.' The Could've Been."

Solidus continued to twitch nervously from his chair. "With the riddles of Glamoury, the word magics of the Fae, Hermes was finally able to crack the Could've Been."

Fidgeting aside, he paused for the inevitable effect of his words. "But by the time he realized what had happened....it was already too late."

Cooper leaned forward in his seat, locking eyes with Solidus from over the top of his glasses.

"What has happened?"

Solidus met the piercing gaze of the attentive mage.

"He tried to stop it, gave everything to make it right again. He thought that he would be strong enough in death to hold back what he had mistakenly brought about, which is why he killed himself prior to the building of Temple of Thoth in Khemenu in, like, 3000 B.C. or whatever it was. It was for this same reason that his writings came into revival by the Church in the Middle Ages. He discovered what could've been, Nicholas, but wasn’t."

He wet his lips with a rattling cough. "I want you to think about what has happened in this city, consuming it politically and magically for near three years now." Solidus regrouped.

"It was a Name. One Name, erased first by Trismegistus and then by the Crusaders, hopefully for all eternity. Wiped out of existence during the Battle of Trees. It should never be spoken, because no one should know it. It should never be remembered, because it never existed. The Sovereign True Name of the High King, the Name given to the fae and to the High Crown by the ancients, the Aos Sí, that gave them the power to wield Glamour and bend Nature to their will. But if that is the case, Nicholas Cooper, then tell me something.... If the Name had truly been erased, then it was never real, and if it was never real, then how does Glamoury even still exist?"

"Cornuto. It never even occurred to me. 'Out of sight,' I suppose." The irony of the statement was not lost on either conversant.

Nicholas pinched the bridge of his nose. "I presume, then, that whatever this... Could Have Been is, it has a close enough sympathetic parallel to static reality to potentially bleed over or be drawn upon. That's how the Name and Glamoury still have substance?"

"It's worse than that I'm afraid. Once Hermes saw that 'The Name' had remained a part of lawful fabric, he drew on every necromantic principle he could conjure up in an attempt to destroy its real-world fetters and prevent the realization of the Could've Been King. Even back then, humanity lived in terror of the fae, I guess. Unfortunately, with the annihilation of the last of the ancient Tuatha rulers during his time, the fetters no longer held any spiritual quintessence. In other words, he couldn't find the objects that anchored The Name because there was nothing to be found. But something has survived, some object or some memory, and it's obvious that it is now having an effect on the form of the Name as it is expressed now."

Pensive eyes glanced habitually around the room.

“Look, I’ll be more plain. Forget Ancient Greece and Egypt. The Christian Crusaders and the missionaries back in the Middle Ages had one job. One real job anyway, and that was to take over the British Isles by annihilating the Sovereignty of the Sidhe, assassinating the Dannean monarchy, and burning the fae freeholds to the ground. And to wit, they were pretty smart about it. They brought the Thaumaturges, the…the miracle-working choir-mages trained in the Vatican, or whatever name it is they go by now. And they carried out their gruesome work by studying Hermes’ texts and learning the Names of all the lower fae kings, queens, and princes so that they could wipe them out of existence. After that, they divined the True Names of the Danneans, the…the…High King and his kin, and summarily slaughtered the last of them too. It’s the reason the fae so zealously guard their True Names today. I mean, Rumpelstiltskin anyone? All that survived of the purge were a few minor noble lines in the lower elven kingdoms, most notably that of King Balor, but even he was essentially rendered useless. While he may have once ruled over the Goblin Lands and the Forges, they left him as little more than a placeholder to occupy some space at the top while the Church figured out how to exterminate everyone else around him. The Crown of Bathmoora was disassembled in the Treaty and both he and the famed Golden Army were left to rot in a broken-down, old, hillside for the rest of their lives. It was all but assured that despite the fact that twins had already been born to him, neither of them would ever ascend the throne, either his or the High one, no matter how beloved of their people they might be, because the True Name of the High Crown was no longer known and therefore, the fae and their magics were at an end.”

Solidus finally took a breath and tapped his feet anxiously. "But now that the B.P.R.D. is involved, things have taken an even more downward spiral."

"The Bureau of Paranormal Research? You're joking." Cooper's dry tone and incredulous glare masked the spark of anger the name stoked somewhere in the depths of his own memories.

"I'm sure I'm showing my ignorance, but even with their spiritual essence beneath the necromantic 'radar,' couldn't one still deduce the potential fetters of The Name in question through psychoanalysis? As monstrous as the fae can be, surely some of their emotional attachments and desires are collectively profound enough to be laid bare through proper scrutiny?"

Solidus said nothing of his attention to Nicholas’ conflicting emotions but continued instead with the topic at hand.

"Hardly. The fae have been chaotic as of late. Surely, you’ve heard the news that the son of King Balor has returned? Prince Nuada, the Silverlance? Rumor has it that he has been calling in boons and amassing quite a fighting force using the Troll Markets and the Nobles Houses alike. And seeing as he is clearly not dead, as our earlier intelligence seemed to suggest, I know you will understand the potential implications here. If the True Name of the High Crown is, in fact, known somehow, he could stand to become the first living heir to the Summer Court in centuries. As the legitimate Prince of the Kingdom of Bathmoora, he would be the next in succession to The Could Have Been King. I mean, seeing as everyone in the original family is pretty much dead or dismembered.”

Nicholas regarded the necromancer with growing concern.

“I told you,” Solidus continued without pause. “The Name still has power and that means that somewhere, somehow, it still exists. Neither Hermes nor the Church were able to fully destroy it, try as they might. The prophesied Winter will not come as long as the Crown and the Throne are real. Glamoury is real! And all those fairy tales that we grew up on are starting to come to fruition in the here and now. And some of those things are much harder to analyze for hidden meanings and clues than you might think.

As for the Bureau, no I'm not joking. Surely by now you've heard of the motley crew they sent after the Prince. Keeping them under the radar, directing them around, going on and on about the Golden Army? It’s the same thing we’ve been following for years. Hellboy, the fish man, the Firestarter? The current director might be an incompetent ass but he has certainly assured himself a coterie of considerable magical talent. I'd have out-maneuvered them for a piece of the Crown of Bathmoora if it hadn't been for their...."

Solidus paused to unclench his fingers from the depths of the chair's upholstered arms.

".... stupidity."

"Congratulations, you've overestimated the intelligence of low-pay government workers. I'm sure you're the first. You'll pardon me if the greater share of my concern lies with the possibility that the world of mankind is about to experience the ascension of its first elven High King since antiquity."

Nicholas’ hand moved upwards from his face to rake through his hair.

"This is dire. The Could Have Been is a state of pure magical potential, with the capacity to create an entirely new world of magical existence. If Nuada is aware of this possibility, it will lend him power and purpose to a level we cannot even begin to imagine. If he finds the Name, or whoever has it, and claims his right to the Crown…this could be all out war."

The irony drew a tight chuckle from the back of Nicholas' throat.

"It's almost poetic. In the dead of winter, summer is on its way." The Hermetic shook his head slightly, a gesture of both beleaguered amusement and refocusing. "Very well. I dare say this is clearly on-par with what I owe you. Tell me what you need from me."

Solidus shared briefly in the pained amusement.

"To be straight with you, this could get very ugly, very quickly, but there are two things I need to know and I think you are my best bet in finding them out."

Solidus once again paused, his habit of glancing around the room almost manifesting as a nervous tic.

"Firstly, if Nuada is intent on realizing the Could've Been, how is he going to do it? He has, no doubt, access to at least a few talented necromancers, a fact I'm certain comes from long centuries of association with the Unseelie, but that doesn't change the fact that necromancy has limited application in cases like this. The Name is not dead, it doesn't, or it shouldn’t, exist. So, he must be looking into or attempting to employ some other kind of divination. I need to know what that is or what has the potential to do that kind of work.

Secondly, it hasn't escaped me that your.... apprentice...is dissociatively involved on the periphery of B.P.R.D. Something of a hobby, I hear. As is your lover by default of his position among the Undead. I need to know where the institute comes in and to what extent. Are they party to this process or working against it? And, either way, how much do they know?”

Sitting back into the now somewhat disarrayed armchair, Solidus drew in a sharp breath.

"So, can you do it?"

Nicholas turned a passing glance to his increasingly disheveled furniture.

"N'kai and Gabriel will be simple. Loathe as I am to have either of them associate with an institutional comedy of errors, they're both exceedingly sharp. If government agents are good at anything, it's failing to keep their mouths shut. The only catch is as to how far in the dark both Prince Nuada and the B.P.R.D. are keeping everyone. Sussing out the mystical cards in Nuada's sleeves, well, that might be a bit trickier. I can likely manage, but it may take time. I don't suppose you have an approximation of how long we have?"

Solidus made a noise somewhere between passive irritation and the onset of a gastro-intestinal disorder.

"I'm willing to bet he’s gotten pretty far, especially if he has already secured the loyalty of his people here in D.C. I can't say I'm privy to the nature of anyone’s inner thinking but I can say this, at least, in regards to our time frame, and that is that we are probably looking at months and not years. The Battle of Trees was centuries ago, Trismegistus was writing millennia before that, but I’m pretty sure that the fae have gotten used to working on more…human…time settings."

Another low chuckle punctuated Cooper's response.

"Well, that certainly eliminates the long play, doesn't it? I don't suppose you have a few wrought-iron weapons laying around, do you?”

His chest rose and fell in a soft sigh.

"Well, what of the Name? How is it appearing? Is it ghostly in nature? Spiritual? Chimerical? ...Do we even know?"

Solidus shrugged emphatically.

"I haven't a clue. It doesn't appear to be necromantic, otherwise I would've been able to draw a bead on it by now. Mostly it’s just whispers that come and go. There hasn’t been anything that leaves any trace indicating where we might find the High Crown itself, or the Summer Court, or by what magics Nuada could attain them. All of my attempts at Name Magic, which are, I admit, amateur at best, haven’t found anything, physically or spiritually. If I had to guess, I would say that the Name is being kept somewhere, by someone or something that can read it. Nuada need only find the object or individual in question to begin the process of claiming birthright.”

The necromancer trained a severe eye on his companion.

"Be careful of this thing, Cooper. I wouldn't be surprised if something violent turned up in your vicinity sooner or later. The more we poke at something like this, the angrier it’s going to get and fae-kind and mages have never really had much in the way of good relations."

The soft scrape of the front door heralded the arrival of the house's other occupant, accompanied by an equally soft swear word uttered at the wintry gust that followed.

"Hmph. Beware the Ides of March, indeed!" Nicholas commented idly.

The young mage’s features softened considerably as the door swung open, his voice lifting in a considerably more cheerful tone.

"Welcome home, my love. We've company."

As Gabriel, still considerably damp and wind-blown, managed to knock the last of the wet, snowy, clumps from his shoes he paused from his precarious balance in the doorway to glance up into the living room.

"Solidus?"

A broad smile from the necromancer warranted a raised eyebrow as the newcomer made his way into the warmer confines of the house. It always made him uncomfortable when the death mage looked at him like that.

"What's up?" He directed at no one in particular.

"Chatting on current events," Nicholas mused, "Some recent supernatural goings on are quite the talk of the town. It seems that the B.P.R.D. has its hands full. Any news from the night life?"

"Nnnnggg." Gabriel slumped onto the far end of the couch, facing the two mages. In contrast to Nicholas’ fair, Anglo-European, features, and short, coppery-red, hair, Gabriel’s countenance clearly belied his birth on the Indian Subcontinent. Long, jet-black, hair fell in thick curls nearly to the middle of his back and though he was no longer technically human, rather, what paranormal researchers would call a vampire (a word he really hated), he had retained his smooth, almost buttery, brown, complexion even several years now into Undeath. 

"Don’t get me started on that lot. The Bureau’s nuts if it thinks half of their current investigations team are going to make it past their first year. I tell you, I never exactly appreciated my sire’s regimental parenting tactics until I heard of this group and there isn’t a creature out there, living or dead right now, who hasn’t run afoul of some haphazard attempt by the B.P.R.D. to either capture them or kill them. Usually badly. What in pluperfect hell possessed a government think-tank to take on an agency wing?"

"A small army of supernatural kith under their watch, each of them struck with the fear of God that their destruction is imminent should they be even the slightest bit disobedient? All young enough to be completely below the radar of other, more powerful, beings and all selected from the kind of fairy-tale stereotypes that even mortal society overlooks? It sounds like every government’s dream, and every citizen’s nightmare. With numbers like we’ve heard reported, the Bureau can even afford to have a few get themselves killed and still have a workable volume."

Nicholas sat back in his seat, offering a wry smile to Gabriel from across the room.

"The question is what they intend to do with them. ...No, that's wrong, we're talking about the B.P.R.D. The real question is what they’re already doing with them."

Gabriel couldn't hide the horrified expression that twitched his eyebrows and comically curled his upper lip into the semblance of a man who had just been told that the Loch Ness monster was noisily devouring his shoes.

"Are you serious!? That's....that's horrible!" Waving his hands emphatically, "I mean, I know half-demons and mermaids are not exactly stellar examples of what humanity has done with itself or anything, but honest-to-god cannon fodder? Who does that kind of thing!?......present company accepted."

Solidus merely nodded. Nicholas lifted both his hands and his voice in earnest self-defense.

"I'm simply positing that it wouldn't be a bad idea for the East Coast community as a whole to keep an eye on these goings-on, is all. The mage communities are already on edge, the fae are moving towards another end, and I imagine that what few vampires…sorry, Sanguines, remain in this city, aren’t too excited about the prospect of potential hunter-types emerging with government backing and weapons funding. The traditional separations are what they are but there's no harm in looking out for one another, young or old. 'It takes a village' and all that."

Though perfectly cognizant of and accepting of Nicholas's explanation, Gabriel remained nonplussed, his sour expression betraying his thoughts.

"Hmph. Well then, what is everyone doing?"

He glanced from Solidus back to Cooper.

"I assume that's what you were talking about, right?"

Cooper nodded, his smile taking on the qualities of a grimace.

"Indeed, and the answer's fairly grim. It sounds like the fae kingdoms are resurging, of all things. But right now, all it appears to anyone is that the fae are chasing after some trinkets with the B.P.R.D chasing after them. Though, as you can imagine, as it pertains to the fae, nothing is ever just a trinket. The truly dreadful question is what follows after they’ve gotten ahold of whatever it is that they seek."

"You mean the museum break-ins everyone is asking about? I was just down at the Smithsonian a few hours ago because someone, well, a group of someones, smashed a car through one of the side galleries in the art museum last week. It took them awhile to figure it out with all the damage but it looks like a whole bunch of random old European artifacts from a visiting exhibition are missing. There’s been, like, a half dozen of the same all over the city in the past month. Mostly old art and bric-a-brac gone. But why does the Bureau give a crap about some Medieval garage sale stuff?"

Nicholas exchanged a glance with the anxious necromancer before looking back at Gabriel.

"Why anyone wants them in particular is precisely the question. As for their general significance, it's not a pretty answer. I can give you the details if you really want, El, but it will likely ruin your night. You may want to wait until we're no longer hosting company."

He tilted his head and smiled apologetically.

"Hm." Came the deadpan reply.

Solidus hopped up from his seat with characteristic enthusiasm. "Well, I think it's time I got going. Can't leave Barlow alone for too long, never know what the legless bastard might come up with. Gabriel, nice to see you as always. Cooper, we'll speak again soon."

Affecting a polite nod, the necromancer made for the door.

"I'll be in touch," came Nicholas' response as he rose, seeing Solidus out in proper fashion.

A few moments of silence passed once the door latched shut.

"So..."

"So..."


	7. Chapter 5 - La Dame à la Licorne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please join me in wishing a happy birthday to Nuada and Nuala. - Nasserwraith, 19 Mar 2019

**Chapter 5 – La Dame à la Licorne (Rated G-ish)**

_“The Lady and the Unicorn”_

Claidheamh Soluis slid free of the agent’s body with a satisfying rush of blood. Scattered shouts and screams echoed down the hall as the elven prince quickly dispatched the last two men sent to slow his escape into the main section of the complex. Above him, Ogham words of warding glowed briefly over the archway of his former cell before fading back into the metal beam and vanishing altogether. He raised his opposite hand to absently touch the circular torque pin binding the red sash at his waist. The whetstone was cracked beyond repair at this point, but it had done its job well. The Gealach Téamh was an ancient object with little use in the grand scheme of things, which is likely why it had spent most of the past few centuries buried in various museum archives or archaeological log books. It had but one power however, and that was to allow its wearer to pass unhindered through a single threshold, on a single day, at a specific time of the year. His glass, iron, and incanted prison was as good as any when it came to the pin’s usage and today was a very special day indeed.

It was the eve of the Vernal Equinox; when the plane of Earth's equator would pass through the center of the Sun. Like many Fae and nearly all elves of royal lineage, today was Nuada’s birthday (the anniversary of one’s birth being the only day in question an individual might use a Gealach Téamh) and the day when every kingdom of Fairest Folk would be celebrating the beginning of the new year. Marked, as it once had been, by the joining of the Court of the Sun, the court of the ancients, with the blooming of the Summer Throne in Seelie lands. Today, he reminded himself, was also the day that the world might finally begin to experience the full measure of his revenge.

Three Raven Guards approached him from the far hallway. Their loyalty to the throne of Bathmoora was absolute and he was grateful now for their fealty, particularly given the shameful circumstances under which they had lost their last monarch. Seven of them had arrived near dusk, easily infiltrating the compound with a combination of cantrips, enchantments, and artifacts gleaned from museums and auction houses over the past few weeks. The combinations of blessed weapons and mystic charms they had been able to reclaim were more than enough to find the hidden institute, breach it, and navigate their way through the labyrinthine halls once there. The timing was also perfect, on a number of levels. Few people were currently minding the complex and a virtual skeleton crew was all that was left as the rest of the government’s forces were occupied with well-planned troubles elsewhere. This strike was near surgical and was meant to be over and done with in mere minutes. And now, once again in league with their Prince, the Corvids turned their attentions to the task at hand: freeing their sovereign and pressing his advantage. 

Nuada raised the Silverlance and pointed it down the hallway.

“Bring up the Hound.” He commanded. “My sister passed this way not long ago. She will have the Unicorn with her but not for long. She knows I can track her regardless of where she may go, so it follows that she will hide Ailith before attempting to lead me astray. They make for the Goblin Trading Post at the dockside, so we must move quickly.”

The three Corvids nodded in assent as the other four joined them from a skirmish near the lifts, each dragging a heavy chain as they pulled their new captive clear of the freight doors. The great beast, a Cŵn Annwn or Cù-sìth by name, appeared before them as a massive dog the size of warhorse. Shaggy, dark green, fur covered the creature in tufts and tussocks reminiscent of the grassy Highlands from which it had originally hailed. Its whitish tail was split into three parts and braided into a whip-like lash while paws the size of a man’s head stamped at the ground in challenge. As the Raven Guards finally hauled the faehound into the main causeway, they each settled at one of four points along its flanks, always at ready to restrain it should the beast lunge for their Prince. As moments passed, the hound regarded Nuada with untrusting yellow eyes but did not move to attack him, having spent most of its last few years in the Dungeon below; another prisoner of B.P.R.D.’s extensive supernatural pacification program.

Nuada lowered his weapon and approached the Cù-sìth with gentle reverence, extending his open hand outwards towards the creature’s nose. A loud huff indicated the beast’s interest in reading his scent and he remained passive as it sniffed at him cautiously. With a grumble, it finally relaxed and allowed Nuada to run his fingers through the mossy fur along its snout. The Prince smiled, despite himself.

“All in due course, my friend.” He whispered soothingly. “Welcome back to the world. It is time for you to run again that we may all give chase.”

He motioned to the Raven Guard who dropped the chains and unclasped them from the neck of the Cù-sìth. The hound then indulged in a satisfying shake before settling into a calmer posture among the ranks.

“Fellows.” He addressed all assembled. “On this day, the Aequinoctium, the right ascension of spring is illuminated by the procession of the sun. But this equinox is not like any other we have seen in more than a millennium. Today, we do what can be done on no other day but this one. Today, we call the Great Hunt. As our ancestors once did in ages past, the fae born of Waking and the fae born of Dreaming will again meet each another on the Field of the Wild. It is our charge to claim one of the Dreaming, an Aos Sì, and bring her into our domain. In so doing, we also honor the old treaties and pay the price by giving of our own. This union on the thresholds between sleep and awake will then herald the new Spring. New life will come to our world once again, such as we have not seen in an age.” He paused, considering the weight of his words carefully. “But our quarry is swift and clever. She will not be taken easily. We must therefore use all that we have at our disposal: our cunning must be brought to bear on the riddles presented, our strength on the battles to come, and our wit on the strategies of our prey.”

An eager hum arose from the company of guardians. The Cù-sìth remained intent until the Prince passed his spear from his left hand to his right, wherein it raised its head and gave three, loud, echoing, barks.

“Tá an fiach orainn. Let the Hunt of the Unicorn begin.”

From the Troll Markets to the country duchies, fae everywhere heard the call.

~*~

“What is going on!?” Ailith cried but Nuala did not slow nor did she soften her grip on the other’s arm. “Where are we going!?”

With a sudden gasp of alarm, the Princess stopped, looking around and around in alarm.

“Ailith, please.” She begged. “We don’t have time. The Hunt is upon us.”

“Hunt? What hunt?”

Nuala drew the girl close before setting off down an alleyway towards a colonial tavern at the end of a cobbled lane. Unlike its more touristy counterparts, this tavern had stood largely unnoticed since the early days of European immigration to the American coast and it had gone through just about as many names as the people who had found solace there. 

“In Irons?” Ailith read from the sign tacked to the left of the large, wooden, door. “We’re going to a bar called In Irons?”

“It’s a sailing term.” Nuala clarified. “And it’s not a bar. This is the Northward Goblin Trading Post. It’s the only place for miles where we might book safe passage.”

“To where?” The elfin girl repeated, abject frustration playing out through her enunciation.

“Ailith.” Nuala steadied the both of them just outside latticed windows. “I know this is confusing but you have to trust me. Once we’re inside, I can explain more but for right now, we need to get off the streets before we’re seen.”

Ailith sighed and sagged into the Princess’s hold, throwing her hands up in defeat. “Alright.”

On entering In Irons the two women were greeted by the myriad sights and smells of a fae public house. All manner of creatures, from the trollishly large to palm-sized pixies and sprites, were arranged in rows of tables with a line of half-elves, a number of goblins, and a troupe of household boggarts dressed in the livery of chessmen at the bar. A few of the closer patrons turned to take notice of them as the door swung shut with an ominous creak but for the most part, they went unrecognized. 

Nuala led Ailith to a corner before proffering a seat next to the wall. When the other accepted it, she hovered on the far side of the table for a few seconds, checking their surroundings cautiously. She sighed under her breath, “A lion on my right, a unicorn on my left. Nothing good will come of this.”

“What does that mean?”

“Wait here.”

Ailith watched as the Princess hurried from the table to take up an anxious position at the end of the bar. A minute later, a rather knobbly looking grey troll sauntered over to her and leaned down so that she could whisper in his ear. The troll scowled, looked at her askance, but then shrugged. She watched as the Princess then produced two small slips of paper from the pouch in her hooded gown and gave them over to the troll who then nodded gruffly and mumbled something guttural that Ailith couldn’t catch in the din. Nuala accepted a couple of mugs filled with hot tea and a slice of bread before returning to her companion.

Nuala took the chair across from the other and slid the mugs and bread towards her. “Ailith, what do you know of the Great Hunt?”

“Great Hunt?” She pondered, absently tearing off a piece of the loaf. “A Wild Hunt, you mean?”

Nuala nodded and waved her hand in acknowledgement.

“Well, a lot of fairy tales have them. Like the…uh…Hunt of Odin? Um, King Arthur? It’s usually some kind of mythical creature being hunted by…elves? Or the dead? Right?”

Nuala nodded again and continued. “Ages ago, the royal houses of the Seelie would call a Great Hunt once in a generation. Every year, on the eve of the Spring Equinox, the councils of the Summer Court would meet to determine if that year was the appropriate year and if so, would then speak the binding words of calling and strike their Bargain with the Court of the Sun.”

Ailith fidgeted. “Nuala, I don’t understand anything you’re saying. Summer Court? Bargain? Court of the Sun? I feel like I should know what you mean, but I don’t!”

Nuala cast a frightened look about them before clenching her trembling fingers and resting them on the table. She took a single, deep, breath.

“Well, since you like fairy tales so much, let me tell you another one. Before the Age of Men, the world was ruled by the Fae. Of the Fae, there were two important divisions. The Seelie, the lawful houses of light and the Unseelie, the chaotic houses of the dark. But it was mankind who misunderstood this division as being between the True Fae and the Earthbound Fae, as…as… between truly supernatural beings and those who were born of mortal flesh. This is not the reality of things. Rather, the True Fae are called Aos Sí. Beings of pure nature and harbingers of magic who passed into this world from The Other Place eons before the memories of men began; ancient creatures born of the divine dreaming of the world. The Aos Sí on Earth, specifically those who had direct dealings with the world, were called the Tuatha Dé Danann and those lineages, those heroes and legends of the old world, were collectively known as The Court of the Sun. The Court of the Sun then, essentially, were the ones who taught magic to the world and then ruled supreme over the natural domains of creation. Follow me so far?”

Ailith dipped her chin once.

“Good. Alright. Over time, the Aos Sí, who we now call the Dreaming Fae, began to intermingle with Nature and with the peoples of the ancient world. From these unions were born the bloodlines of the Aois-dàna, the Earthbound or Waking Fae. It was the Aois-dàna who eventually split into the Seelie and Unseelie Courts; the twin rulerships of Spring-Summer and Autumn-Winter. In other words, all the Fae you know and all the Fae you see here are Aois-dàna; each according to their own unique kinds. Now, I’ll spare you the long, long, histories of my people but suffice to say that they eventually separated out into various kith and kingdoms and dominions and eventually incorporated all manner of fae-peoples in courts and bloodlines and what have you. But…”

She raised a finger to ensure she had the other’s undivided attention.

“This is where our story comes in. It was tradition, you see, for the Court of the Sun and the Seelie Summer Court to maintain the long-lasting unity and harmony between Fae-kinds and the ultimate balance of Nature through a once-in-a-generation exchange. The Court of the Sun would offer up one of its most highly-prized consorts, a Unicorn; empresses of the woodland realms, courtiers of trees, and fetters of the divine rights of sovereignty. The Summer Court would then name a Hunter, usually a Prince or Princess or close to it but specifically someone not Heir Apparent to a throne. This way, the lower kingdoms would keep their direct lines of succession intact while at the same time, the bonds between the Aos Sí and the Aois-dàna would be renewed. It was then the task of the Hunter and their closest kin to pursue, capture, and subdue the unicorn. If they were successful, and often they were not, the named Hunter and the Unicorn would then become, by weight of Geas, a mated pair.”

“Huh.” Ailith replied. “Ok? But, what does that have to do with us?”

Nuala exhaled slowly, still not entirely sure how much she wanted to tell her.

“Ailith, the Great Hunt was the method by which the line to the sidereal High Kingship was decided. Only through bonding with an Aos Sí would an Aois-dàna be eligible to ascend to the highest throne and be granted the power of absolute allegiance; to rule as High King or High Queen. This is something that has not happened in millennia, at least, not since the destruction of the last of the Court of the Sun at the coming of the Age of Men. After that, the High Kingship was considered ended forever and the onset of Winter was presaged. With no unicorns left in the world and with the departure of the last Aos Sí back into The Other Place, it was thought that it would only be a matter of time before magic itself burned out and wonder would be forever lost. When men finally came, they were simply the last straw in a string of tragedies and disasters in the great story of our misery. They wreaked havoc on the last of the fae kingdoms and ransacked the castles and hillsides. The throne, the crown, the ancient libraries and genealogies, the agreements and ties of kinship, everything….it was all destroyed.”

Ailith furrowed her brow in response to Nuala’s fevered telling. She still didn’t understand what this had to do with her or with anything really, but she could clearly see the terror writ on the Princess’s features. And that alone was enough to frighten her.

“But in its time,” Nuala continued, “the Great Hunt was so terrifying that it scarred the memories of people for generations. Seeing a Wild Hunt often heralded great catastrophes, like wars or plagues. Many also began to see them as harbingers of death. I have encountered tales that those who even so much as heard the horn or the baying of the hounds would fall dead in an instant or that the riders would harvest up the souls of the sleeping to participate in the chase. During the battles and treaties of my father’s time, all manner of men betrayed us or attacked us for no other reason than that they feared the return of the Hunts and, I suppose, the return of the High King. It is the very thing Nuada called for that ultimately split them apart, our father and he.”

“Nuada wanted him to become the High King?”

“No, not exactly.” Nuala sipped at her tea before admitting. “Well, it’s hard to say. My brother believed that the only way to punish mankind for their treachery and murder was to re-forge the ancient bonds with the Aos Sí and to enact a return to a few of our more…savage…. traditions. He wanted something or someone who could enforce the terms of the old treaties and keep mankind to their side of the wall, so to speak, and to protect, by force, the wild places of the Earth. Naming a new High King, one who could command the alliance of ancients, would have been one way to do that. At the very least, a High King would have been able to bring back the rules and consequences of Creideamh Sí. You know, the Fairy Faith. When I was little, people still observed the rituals and practices by which mankind kept good relationships with the fae and avoided angering the elders and sovereigns. Whether he meant for it to be himself or not, I don’t know. Honestly? I don’t think so. Not then, at least.”

Ailith thought back on her many conversations with Nuada over the past several weeks. Unexpectedly, she felt the formation of an involuntary smile at the memory of his last lengthy exposition on one of the books of traditional tales she had brought to him. She had asked him all sorts of questions about the famous heroes: The Dagda, Cú Chulainn, Lugh the Long Arm, The Morrigan, Brigit and Aed, and the Three Sisters. He always had fascinating answers, launching into vivid tales of chance meetings and battles, festivals and sacred journeys. On one particularly memorable occasion, though he had not intended to be humorous, she had found his commentary on the vagaries of fairy bargaining quite funny. This was mainly due to the fact that he clearly disliked talking animals and went on for some time as to how not to get into an argument with one. Not because he thought that they were rendered incorrectly in the texts but in that he found them to be completely untrustworthy. He especially distrusted owls. 

Her smile then turned sad as the memories continued to play out in detail. She remembered him as he had been in those last few days. Generally at ease, though still confined and resistant. Dressed in his black kaftan coat and red silk sash. Pale skin softly aglow in the blue lights of the cell. Dark eyes, both mirthful and intense. She didn’t want to say it but she missed him. In fact, she had started to grow rather fond of him and his unpredictably stormy mannerisms and passionate affectations. 

“But it’s not the point anymore.” Ailith heard Nuala say. She looked up from the bits of bread still on the table to the Princess across from her, who went on to add, “The Hunt has been called again. I heard it only moments ago. Every fae in this region would have heard it. And it is Nuada who leads them.”

“But…” Ailith answered, still unsure of exactly what was afoot. “If Nuada has called a Wild Hunt, then wouldn’t that mean he’s trying to become High King?”

“If he is successful, yes.” The Princess responded, sadly. “I now believe that is exactly his intent.”

“Which means…” The other tried to carry her thoughts through to their logical end. “…that he must be hunting something…” Ailith thought back on her readings, on all the esoteric books and scrolls she’d managed to dig through in her time with the B.P.R.D. In a flash, she came to a horrible conclusion. Woodcuts and illuminations of the arranged royal marriages between fae twins floated through her vision and she suddenly understood why Nuala was so afraid. She was also angry at Nuada then, for imposing such obligations as that which must be equally offensive to him, given her understanding of his views on the occasionally incestuous history of elves.

Ailith reached her hand out to rest it on Nuala’s in a gesture of comfort. “Nuala? Is that what’s wrong? Are you being hunted?”

Nuala raised her eyes to meet the concerned ones of the crackle-skinned girl with the unruly white hair.

“No, Ailie. You are.”


	8. Chapter 6 - Et vogue la galère (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Come What May"

Ailith stared uncomprehendingly into the distance as Nuala bustled about their shared quarters on the tavern’s second floor. It was a lot to take in all at once. Elven royal houses, unicorns, crowns, Great Hunts, and something or other about an oath. A Geas, was the word the Princess had used. But what disturbed Ailith more than anything was the fact that she had absolutely no memory of any of the things they had discussed, though the words did seem oddly familiar. It was a little like the Names that came to her so easily these days. They weren’t something she ever knew beforehand, and not at all like memories, but as though she had somehow overheard them. For a time, she thought of it a little like eavesdropping but in this case, on a conversation the universe was having with itself. Now she thought of it more like reading a person or an object’s characteristics as letters, and the whole of their being as a word. In the end, all she needed was to know how to read and the message came readily. Remembering how she had first learned the alphabet was secondary. Ailith stared down at her hands, idly picking at the crackled skin on her palms, and thought back to another conversation she’d had with Nuada just days before.

“It is a wounding.” He had said, gesturing towards the lines and fissures on her face. “Far greater than any I have shared. With time, my wounds heal. That will not.”

She hadn’t understood his meaning in that moment but now, the conversation felt almost sinister.  
“Some injuries must be bound before they can heal.” He told her.

Nuala roused her from the reverie. “Ailie?”

“Hmmm?”

“Are you alright?”

“Yes. I think so.” 

“Good.” The Princess settled on the bed next to her. “Now listen, I won’t be gone long. The Wharf is less than an hour from here. I’ll find us a ship on the waterfront and get us passage on Lethe. Once we’re in the Underground, the river passes through the Barrens of the Near Dreaming. We should be in Bathmoora before nightfall.”

“And then what?” Ailith asked.

“You’ll be safe there.” Nuala replied. “The Wild Hunt may never pass beyond the borders of sovereign land. It is limited to the outreaches and unnamed places. You can claim sanctuary in the halls of my father and wait for it to pass.”

Ailith nodded. She didn’t have the heart to tell her earnest companion just how conflicted she felt about all this. If what she had been told was correct, Nuada might, in fact, be her only hope in recovering the memory she had lost. In short, for becoming herself again. Whoever that may have been. But it did not escape her that this “binding” would come at a cost. In allowing herself to be caught, or in being what amounted to a prize in the Great Hunt, she would also be accepting the Geas that came with it. She scowled. The Fae weren’t exactly above arranged marriages but this seemed a little extreme. In the end, she cared for Nuada but she also didn’t know him that well and this business of the Hunt wasn’t improving her perspective.

“Promise me you’ll wait here until I return?” Nuala grasped her hands emphatically. “Stay hidden and don’t let anyone know where you are.”

“I promise.” Ailith replied. She didn’t really know where else she’d go right now anyway. She had never been to this part of town and couldn’t have told anyone where she was even if she wanted to.

Nuala nodded before rising and shouldering her small satchel. “Just an hour or two. Then we leave.” She announced with an air of confidence. With that, the door flew open and the Princess was gone.

Ailith sighed and flopped backwards onto the quilt. This was going to be a very long, very bizarre, day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

She drifted in and out of sleep. Exhausted, but too tense to really rest. The dream began to take shape slowly; troubled and fretful…

…Somewhere, there is a fire. 

Tendrils of wood smoke curled casually across the rough wooden beams of the ceiling. The room was warm and quiet, the monotonous ticking of an old clock adding a calming beat to the rustic ambience. It took a few disorienting moments but it soon became all too clear in the dawning of a more wakeful mind that this was a cabin, far out in the woods, and a long way from Washington D.C.

She stirred, tearing away from the fevered dream with an instinctive panic, roused as she was by the sense of a nearby flame.

It was only through occasional flashes of concentration that she was able to keep her composure, even as confusion and concern flooded her mind and knit a furrow across her brow. Her vision was uncharacteristically blurry at first, causing her to squint and strain. Slowly, almost painfully, she sat upright in a bewildered attempt to familiarize herself with these new and unexpected surroundings.

The tavern room was transformed and, in its place, the bucolic atmosphere of a winter cabin was unmistakable. A low fire smoldered and popped in the fireplace. Only it and a single candle, set solidly in the center of the main table, lit the small room. She found herself, strangely, still sitting on a bed. Piled high with rumpled linen sheets and blankets, it looked as though she had been there for a while. Near the bed, an end table contained a few familiar accoutrements. A stack of her favorite books, a teacup, and the carousel necklace. At first, it also seemed that she was alone, before an equally unmistakable voice rippled across the calm.

"Kind of you to finally join me."

It was Nuada. He was sitting, leaning slightly to his left, on a chair near the table. Ailith's face twisted into a grimace, though whether it was due to the faint pain that had started to spark throughout her tired body or to her recognition of Nuada's voice was unclear. Her eyes squinted at the blurred Prince, hands fumbling at her face for a quick press to her forehead that brought the cabin around her into focus.

"Nuada?" Ailith queried with a sudden sense of panic. Had he found her already? How long had she been asleep?

"Try not to sound so happy to see me, Ailith." came the rather dry reply.

As he slowly came into focus, two somewhat odd things became apparent. Firstly, as the Prince rested at ease at the table, soft wisps of white-blonde hair gently cascaded around his shoulders, a few strands lightly brushing his face in an unkempt fall of burnished locks. Combined with the loose, linen shirt he wore, the entire visage made him look far younger than his usual haughty demeanor allowed. In the flickering firelight it was easy to call him handsome.

The second far more striking thing, however, was that in this rare occasion, Nuada had seen fit to address his apparent charge, as Ailith. Not ‘My Lady.’ Not some other honorific or affectation. Just her name. With her mind still adjusting to her surroundings, Ailith failed to notice her own hand as it lifted to touch the reddish markings in the center of her forehead. It was a simple enough gesture, yet all too telling to anyone the wiser. She adjusted her posture into a more proper sitting form, crossing her legs beneath the linen sheets and gathering her composure.

"I’m…. I am happy to see you." Oddly, she actually meant it. “It’s just, I don’t recognize this place and I didn’t expect…this.”

With one hand resting on the table, the other passing idly through his hair, Nuada paused to push the last few strands from his eyes.

"I would imagine not. But as my sister has seen fit to steal you away, there weren’t many other options."

Regardless of his choice of words, his tone did not seem harsh or pointed. Also strange for him in these circumstances.

"So. To what pleasure do I owe your apparent… vigil?" Ailith offered, stalling in way, as she hoped her situation would become clearer. Everything around her was vague and dream-like but it was also so unlike a dream. She felt awake and aware, in control of her thoughts and actions, but the world around her remained shifting and indistinct. She only knew it to be a cabin because it seemed like a cabin. And there was a fire in the fireplace simply because it was logical for one to appear. Dreams were confusing like that.

His eyes strayed across the place where she sat. Though Nuada’s gaze remained impenetrable, betraying nothing that the Prince hid behind dark, golden, eyes.

"We should talk." Nuada's calm, deep, voice was unusually comforting given the setting and situation.

Ailith’s fingers absently wandered to the table to feel about for her necklace and begin toying with the chain, quickly soothing her thoughts with the manual distraction. She leaned backwards until her back came to rest against the headboard, fixing her expression in a look of passive neutrality she didn’t at all feel. If she was dreaming, nothing of consequence would come of this conversation, so there was no sense in getting worked up. If, somehow, she wasn’t, and this really was Nuada, she didn’t want to risk angering him in a situation she was having trouble comprehending, to say nothing of controlling. 

Ignoring the implications of his last comment, Ailith attempted a breezy observation. "So, this must be some kind of hunting lodge, yes? What brings you out here?” 

"I think you already know the answer to that. You were, after all, the one to run." The dry chuckle in Nuada's voice was one of nearly genuine amusement. 

Ailith pursed her lips to avoid openly glaring at him. The glimmer of mirth in the Prince's eyes belied something he chose not to give voice. Ailith however, was, unfortunately, unable to mask the expression of distaste before it reached her face.

"Did you just call me prey?"

"No." Came the unexpected reply. "And even if I did, it would be inaccurate. The words we use to describe things are so often inadequate in capturing their essence and none more so than now."

Nuada pressed his back into the chair, somewhat precariously close to the fireplace.

"But you and I can only be separated for so long now. Even this barrier will crumble. The Dream cannot last forever."

So, it *was* him, it would seem.

“Why are you doing this?” Ailith rejoined. “What did I ever do to you that you would…. hunt me?”

Nuada remained impassive but his words began to color with unexpressed emotion. “I mean you no harm, Ailith.”

She responded with an incredulous look.

“I am not deceiving you. Though, I can understand why you might think so.” He smiled lightly. “The truth is, there is something I must return to you. Something…I owe you.”

“And the Great Hunt?” She shot back, too anxious to catch the significance of his admission. “Nuala told me about the Geas and…and…the High King! Don’t try to pretend there isn’t something else you’re after.”

Putting his rising frustrations aside, Nuada let his eyes slide shut in a moment of contemplation. The next phrase, while spoken evenly, came completely out of left field.

“Take your book from the table, Ailith. Look at the painting on the first page and tell me what you see.”

She stared at him as one might a great beast about to pounce. But he did not move. Hesitantly, she reached for the book, a readily recognizable copy of the Lebor Gabála Érenn; a collection of poems and stories said to be that of the true history of Ireland from the creation of the world to the first days of the Middle Ages. She’d read it many times but as the smooth, cloth, binding slid onto her lap, she realized something was amiss. Rather than the typical image of Irish warriors and gods who usually adorned the cover, it contained only a single figure; a unicorn facing an oncoming tempest.

Ailith quickly flipped to the first page and unfolded a three-part illuminated manuscript tucked into the stitching. It was a glorious riot of color and imagery, hand-painted and embossed with gold leaf and silver accents. From left to right it showed a great kingdom rising above an endless expanse of woodlands, populated by all manner of creatures both animal-like and fairy. The courtyards of the castle at its center were decorated for a celebration, with banners and flowers spilling out of every corner. Everywhere, the drawing seemed animate, moving of its own accord as a great din of laughter and joy drifted up from the pages. There were dancers and performers, musicians and artisans, knights in armor astride massive horses, children racing about through their parents’ legs, people leaping into the fountains and splashing in the pools, and at their center…

…she looked up at him. 

“What do you see?” He repeated.

“It’s a unicorn.” She faltered. Ailith looked back down at the page and carefully rubbed her thumb against the raised form of the creature rendered in white and gold. “She’s beautiful. She’s walking along side all these people and wearing a crown of lilies, I think. She…looks happy.”

Nuada nodded. “The last Great Hunt of the Unicorn is known only by a series of tapestries woven by Men and hung in the chateaus of France. Until they were almost burned, anyway. From there, they were stolen and now hang somewhere not too far from here, I believe. I’ve seen all seven of them, The Start of the Hunt, The Fountain, The Unicorn Attacked, The Unicorn Defending Himself, The Unicorn Captured by the Virgin, The Unicorn Killed, and The Unicorn in Captivity. They are beautiful. But they are also a lie.”

Ailith gripped the book. “I don’t understand.”

“The Hunt is about life, Ailith. Not death. Not imprisonment.” Nuada replied gently. “It is more than an ancient pact, it is a promise. A promise in the possibility of renewal and rebirth. When it ended, my people believed that all had been lost. That the sun, would never rise again on their world. In despair, we have only barely lived since then. A darkness, a melancholy, we could never escape. All we could do, was watch as sorrow slowly consumed us. Do you understand that?”

“I don’t know.” She answered honestly.

The figures on the paper shifted again. Now the unicorn was adorned in precious gems, glittering in the sunlight. The walls of the castle gave way to a gallery of murals, each showing a Hunt that had come before it. She watched it with open fascination.

“Who are these elves here?” She indicated a line of heroic-looking figures arranged along the bottom border, with ivy and violets.

“The Caidreamh laochra, the Consorts of the Unicorns.” Nuada explained. “In the time of the Dannean kings, it was not uncommon for second and third sons and daughters, those who were spared from the ascension of throne or title, to bind their lives and their Fates to the Trees and become guardians or stewards of the land. Many of these became the great heroes of legend whose stories are still told today. The finest among them all would occasionally be chosen and become the Caidreamh laochra. Their bloodlines carried the strength of ancient magic and renewed the Elven Houses each Summer with warriors and sages the likes of which will likely never be seen again. Though, I doubt there is any elf alive right now who cannot trace one of their line back to the love of a Unicorn.”

Flustered by his words, Ailith immediately spoke her mind on the topic. “And what about you? How long has it been since you’ve been…a… a lover?”

Nuada was slightly taken aback by the question but did not flinch. He chuckled. “I’m not entirely sure any woman I’ve known would use that term.” 

What Nuada had meant to convey was that he had only ever occasionally indulged in physical pleasure. And when he had, it was rarely with the same person twice. So, in that sense, he had never considered himself as anyone’s lover, nor anyone to him. He had also always been especially studious in avoiding any pairing during the Midsummer, lest the union result in the birth of a child. It became clear to him, however, that what he had actually said was not being quite so well received.

“So, what does that make me to you when this is done?” Ailith snapped, looking somewhat more menacing from her perch on the bed than she had previously.

Nuada chose his words carefully. “I suppose we will have to see what comes of it. But I am not here to force you, Ailith. That is not my intention.”

Her temper was not satisfied. Ailith’s voice lifted in volume, her face creasing with effort as she lifted the book in her lap to begin gesturing with it wildly. Worry, fear, and a growing sense of betrayal whirled in a chaotic maelstrom through her thoughts.

"Force me?! And yet there is a literal hunt after me! Surely, you’ve *something* in mind. Would you would have me as a puppet? A trophy to trade for another trophy!? Tell me this isn’t all about one thing, and that thing is you!"

The Prince, now stronger and more focused from his encounter with death, rose to his feet; the chair skittering backwards. His voice was a vicious hiss, eyes glittering with rage no longer hidden behind a mask of propriety. He stalked closer to her, his entire body tense and at the ready; shaking with powerful emotion.

"I would not toy so idly with words, Ailith. And do not play at indignation with me. Neither of us have tears enough for what has been brought upon our people and I would have seen those insults avenged. But in the end, I failed. Even death was no release. And still our people suffer. Still they cower under bridges and sewers, desperate for any last hope, all the while Mankind continues to burn our forests to ash and crush our Kinfolk into fodder to fuel their greed. There is *nothing* left for them." He spat. “And then, in a single moment, I was presented with one choice, one possibility, one last chance to change that.”

He was nearly shouting. “I will hunt a thousand Unicorns if there is even the slightest possibility that it means they can be saved.”

A quiver cracked Ailith’s throat, betraying the fear that welled inside of her in the face of the furious elven Prince.

"Fine.” She sniffed. “There you have it. You become the High King and I…I…what…. get locked in a tower somewhere?! That’s how this goes, right?”

With a motion almost too fast to follow, Nuada was leaning over the bedside, nose to nose with Ailith in seconds. His mouth was curled in a snarl, though he stopped short of actually baring his teeth. A soft cascade of fire lit hair descended over his shoulders, swirling across his face and settling into the deep lines of his scars.

"Is that what you think me? Is that what you think I am? Weeks you visited me in confinement and so much we spoke of at length that now you claim not to know my mind. I ruminated on this decision for a great while and do you know why that is?”

Ailith shrank back, but the wall and the headboard meant that she could not go far. "How should I know? As everyone so helpfully keeps pointing out to me, I’m apparently not in my right mind! Clearly, I don’t know anything at all!”

He narrowed his eyes into amber points of shrewd cunning.

"A Hunt is not won through pursuit alone. Give me whatever challenges you wish, Ailith. That is your right and I will answer each one in whatever way you decide. Run from me; I will find you. Offer me riddles; I will solve them. Set impossible tasks or demand impossible things; I will fulfill whatever deeds you can imagine. If I cannot, then I was never worthy to try. But if there is one thing that must be made clear, it is the stakes of this endeavor. So, if you will not see things as they are, then I will see them for you."

The motion was nigh imperceptible but, in a heartbeat, Nuada brought both hands to Ailith’s shoulders in a firm grip, locking the startled girl in place. With sudden upheaval, he sat down at the edge of the bed and drug his unwilling captive against his chest, one hand tight around the back of Ailith’s neck, the other solidly at her back.

Ailith was barely able to utter a shout of surprise before Nuada seized her. In that moment, she had half a mind to hit him, for what good it would do, while her mind raced between possibilities. Did he intend to drag her off? Break her neck? Pin her to the wall? Something much worse?

And then, he stopped.

All she could do was breathe. Tense and slightly trembling, she waited for him to act. But he did nothing; merely held her against him in what, she now realized, was the very first physical contact they had ever shared. Relatively speaking. His breathing was slow, even; his posture supporting her as she leaned into him. His body was warm where he rested against her and his expression uneasy where she could feel his cheek near her ear.

Only a single word found her voice, stuttered in a vulnerable plea of desperation. "Don’t..."

For several seconds, he did not respond; a white-knuckled grip hardly necessary to keep Ailith in place, especially given that she had not struggled against him. In truth, he had expected her to and when more moments passed in frightened silence, he eased his hold and slowly drew back from her to turn his head. With something that almost might have been taken to be tenderness, Nuada brought his lips against Ailith’s ear, still holding her close but not returning to the crushing grip he’d started with. His voice was barely a whisper through unruly locks of white hair.

"Don’t what?"

Angry. Fearful. Irate. Cautious. Curious. She was all these things at once. Part of her wanted to throw him off and run out the door, damn it all where it might lead, or, barring that, scratch his eyes out and then escape. Another part of her wanted to know what he meant by all this. Had their nights-long musings and discussions in the cellblock of B.P.R.D. been in pursuit of some other ulterior motive? Who had she been before all this and did he know her? What did it mean to be a Unicorn and why did she not understand this? And then there was the small part of her that wanted him to stay as he was; to feel his touch turn gentle and see his rage become affection. Her response, then, confused even her.

“Don’t be angry.”

He canted his head and regarded her thoughtfully. “What is it you are asking of me, Ailith?”

She swallowed nervously and raised one hand to trail tentative fingertips over the scarred line that started near his ear, cut across both of his cheekbones and over the bridge of his nose. It was a particular characteristic of his face that she had often wanted to touch, if just to feel how deep it went. As she did so, she heard a whisper in the depths of her mind. A Name, in lilting syllables just barely breaking through her subconscious. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“Just…” She started. “Just, don’t be angry.”

When he opened his eyes again, they were russet but calm. “It is because of you that I have life at all.” He said. “By that very fact, it belongs to you. Ask what you will, and I will answer.”

“What am I supposed to see?” 

She liked him this way. He was more like he had been before. More contemplative than militant, and less hostile to the world around him. She felt him tense at the question but he did not pull away. Rather, she felt the hand at the back of her neck drift forward and take hold of her chin, tilting her face up to meet him. He then leaned forward, brushing his lips against hers with the most minimal amount of contact. Letting her feel him but never quite closing the distance into a real kiss. 

“Me.” He whispered…

…She awoke fighting; Nuala shaking her back into consciousness with a terrified yell.

“Ailith! Get away from that place! You must come back!”

When she opened her eyes, the tavern had returned; the companion at her side a Princess, and no longer a Prince. 

But somewhere, there was a fire.


	9. The Second Interlude (Rated T)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein we see what is going on elsewhere in the city at the same time. Again.

_Meanwhile, still somewhere else in Washington D.C._

Gabriel shifted into a more upright position on couch, resting his hands in his lap.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm really not going to like this?"

"Because you're not."

Nicholas Cooper, Hermetic Mage and sometimes poorly-funded adjunct, made his way back across the living room to take a seat next to his partner. He reached out to take the young vampire's hand in his, giving it a forebodingly comforting squeeze.

"Gabriel, how familiar are you with the basic principles of necromancy?"

"Oh, for the love of all that's holy, Nicholas, you didn't resurrect the rabbit did you!?!"

Gabriel turned, affecting a suddenly significant grip.

"Resurrect the rabbit? Why would I need to resurrect Flopsy? Did he discombobulate again?"

Nicholas shook his head. "...No, this isn't about the rabbit. Gabriel, do you know what a fetter is?"

Still unable to hide his apprehension, "It's something about physical things that ghosts haunt, like a favorite toy or a childhood home, that kind of thing. Right?"

"Precisely. The objects that the fae are seeking out are fetters." Nicholas chewed his lip pensively.

"The fae are looking for ghosts? That seems…. odd." Gabriel mused.

Cooper paused to draw in a long breath and let it all out in a single, unending, stream of words.

"Well... it’s not exactly ghosts they’re after. More like, the long-destroyed remnants of an ancient empire involving the once High King of Ildathach, the many-colored place, and Tír na nÓg, the ancient empire of the eternal, who may very well now be literally resurrected in the bloodline of an elven prince from Bathmoora who is attempting to capture a unicorn so that he can make a claim to the throne."

Gabriel stared at him quizzically for a long moment.

“What?”

“An elf is after a unicorn so he can become king. Of…. every…thing.”

“Uhhh……. huh.”

Nicholas smiled tersely as Gabriel continued to stare at him. “And…what does this have to do with fetters?”

“Well,” the mage continued, “That’s what Solidus and I were trying to figure out, really. See, the thing is, the High Crown isn’t supposed to exist anymore. It was supposedly destroyed, as in completely annihilated, during an event called The Battle of Trees, like, a few centuries ago or more. Anyway, that’s neither here nor there, the important thing is that the magical communities of the Eastern Seaboard are in absolute chaos right now because one of their last living Sovereigns has found a way to bring the High Kingship back into being. This means that the Sacred Name, the title as it were, that holds the essence and power of the throne and the crown still exists somewhere. It’s all very complicated and I don’t really have the time to explain it all right now but just trust me when I tell you that the implications we’re trying to get a handle on is that one, Prince Nuada, heir to Bathmoora, is hunting a Unicorn in the ancient tradition that begins the right of ascension and two, that the very fact he is even able to do this means that the Name of the King must exist somewhere in order for him to claim it. And, in this case, it is likely that the name is held in some kind of an object, which, if we look back at our esoteric history, the fae actually kind of do that a lot. Ergo, fetter.”

“Right.”

“You don’t seem convinced.”

Gabriel regarded his lover with a measure of incredulity. “You’re a mage, I’m a vampire, that was a necromancer just now. I’m not sure I have a lot of leeway here in terms of disbelief.”

Nicholas smiled brightly. “Exactly! Anyway, Solidus wants my help in seeing whether or not we can figure out precisely where and what this fetter is. Therefore…I was thinking….” 

“…you were thinking I might let you use a few of my less than savory abilities to help you metaphysically search for it.”

“My love, if I could enact clairvoyance and psychometry on my own, you know I wouldn’t ask. But your blood connects you to the wisdom and experiences of elders whose lives stretch back thousands of years in time and I can use that to focus my inquiries in the Collective Unconscious and find this thing, hopefully before Prince Nuada does.”

“Ugh. I really hate this.”

“I know, I know, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Ok?”

Gabriel eyed Nicholas with a short-lived scowl before rolling his eyes in defeat. Blood in general was a major magical focus for Hermetic practitioners (he cursed their post-Christian Greek influences for that) and his blood…well…even more so. “Fine. But if you get yourself into trouble in there, I won’t be able to do much to help you, alright? Just….be careful. It takes all of my concentration to anchor both of our consciousnesses and make sure we don’t end up adrift in psychosis for all eternity.”

Cooper nodded and giddily sat down on the couch next to his irritable companion. Gabriel almost never allowed him access to the mystical properties of his vampiric blood, let alone his mind, but he also knew that the mage would not have asked him to do this if the situation wasn’t important. He just really hated the intense feelings of vulnerability these activities instilled in him. 

“Do you want me to make the cut or do you prefer to do it yourself?” Nicholas asked.

Gabriel sighed. At least he’d remembered to put covers on the upholstery this time. With one last pointed look towards his companion he raised his own wrist to his mouth and quickly bit through the skin to allow a thin flow of blood to begin dripping slowly down onto his hand. He then offered the very same hand to the mage.

With that, Nicholas began his work. Resting both of his own hands on the vampire’s offered wrists and entwining his fingers with the bloodied one, he closed his eyes and called forth his magic. Muttering broken syllables in old, dead, tongues, he shaped the ritual with surgical precision. He called upon the workings of the earth mages and the Druids, bidding them to lead his mind along the necessary path. He focused his thoughts on the notions of the Absolute, and drew from it his icons of choice: a crown, a book, and sword. The meanings behind which would guide the magic towards his intended goal. Lastly, he conjured an image in his mind, the most readily available and relevant image he could muster: The Unicorn in Captivity. The power then twisted and burned in his head, birthing a twin mind; a fabricated parallel to his senses and thoughts.

Nicholas gritted his teeth, straining to keep his eyes from rolling back as his mind accelerated and acclimated to the dual state. One mind strained to focus on the present, to retain identity and gird itself against any possible oncoming psychic onslaught. The other, safely partitioned and magically temporary, reached out to his lover to establish a telepathic bond.

Gabriel’s mind, resistant at first, slowly began to give way through a tumultuous pattern of thoughts, ideas, and bits of memory. As Cooper anchored the link, Gabriel's own voice, the typical internal monologue of most conscious minds, began to fade as he shifted his concentration to keep them both moored in the material world. Safely tethered, Nicholas turned his consciousness and struck out into the maelstrom of the ether.

Almost at once, he perceived another voice; the soft timbre of a woman, somewhere in the distance. The words were strange, with a foreign cadence he couldn’t place. The young mage furrowed his brow intently, physically reaching up to wipe the sanguine sweat from his lover's face even as his cognitive twin twisted and danced in the vampire’s thoughts.

Cooper moved deeper into the telepathic blood-bond, still listening to the cryptic speech as he left the safety Gabriel's consciousness. Gabriel, for his part, mentally sounded another sort of warning, pulling instinctively away from the alien voice in his head but Cooper pressed forward. The woman's voice momentarily paused, the darkness around them falling silent.... waiting....

A presence drifted towards them, gently, with inquisitive mirth. As it neared, Cooper felt something begin to creep towards his own half-mind. There was strange scent, of woodsmoke and old books. Was it in his mind? In Gabriel's? Did the air of the living room suddenly become denser; the faint footfalls of cherubs alighting across the carpet with censers of ash and incense?

It moved closer, the feel of broken wood crossing through the Hermetic's palm, and then an oddly familiar sensation...that of cold, rough-hewn, metal. Nicholas closed his eyes, reassuring himself of the illusory nature of the sensations both exotic and familiar. He centered himself for a beat, drew a token breath, and acted in concert with his own psychological twin.

As Gabriel relaxed into the tidal drift moving through his subconscious, the voice began to re-emerge, slowly, with soft intonations; a rhythm that could almost pass as the cadence of a ritual in its own right.

The shadows of the room swelled and stretched, pooling across the living room carpet, leaving dark stains of memory in their wake. A cold breeze swept through the closed windows, reminiscent of the winter winds coming off of the ocean. Nicholas could hear the rustling of cloth somewhere in the distance as Gabriel tried to force the images in his mind to sharpen. The young vampire was drawing on the memories of his bloodline to fuel his lover’s magic, and there was no telling where that would lead them.

Then, with a gut-wrenching crash, a tsunami struck, tearing Cooper's half-mind from its moorings. The haze of mind and memory parted as a fog does before the onslaught of the sun. He found himself standing in a large, poorly lit room, filled with row upon row of ancient wooden tables, their worn wood splintered and stained with age. Blood splattered the stone floor, some old and long congealed with rain water and dust, some new and fresh; a blazing red badge of sin against a dull grey world. Various instruments of the abattoir, not since seen after the advent of electricity, lay haphazardly around the room; some used as macabre book marks in old texts so equally yellowed, some in various stages of purpose.

Cooper's eyes widened first with horror, then further with dread. He steeled his mind against the insistent clawing of panic against his consciousness, replacing his fear with anger, and couching this anger in turn with defiance. There was a presence here. Something causing their minds to find this memory in particular and to inhabit it as a matter of course. He pulled along the mystic channels of kinship that bound his lover to the undead kindred that had come before him and sunk his mind further into the thrum of human unconsciousness from which they emerged. Again, something stirred in the depths.

His eyes danced across the grim setting, using his nauseating historical sense of the scene to search for any object or shape out of place. Any such flaw, he reasoned, might reveal the illusion's linchpin... Or its creator.

The voice that answered his thoughts was as clandestine as it was seductive.

"I have plundered the fern, Through all secrets I spy, Old Map ap Mathonwy, Knew no more than I."

“The White Goddess.” He rejoined, answering, in part, to an empty room. “By Robert Graves. Every practitioner of magic knows that book.”

The timbre of the voice, while undoubtably feminine, shifted in pitch and resonance, before finally clearing to that of a young woman affected by the accents of millennia. 

"Indeed, they do. And yet, they understand so little of it. Wayfarers wondered, Warriors were dismayed, At renewal of conflicts, Such as Gwydion made.”

He crossed his arms, taking a step away from a particularly grisly scene involving a half-butchered stag on the table beside him.

"Show yourself, witch! If you were once kin to the Undead or kin to the Fae, I would see you out either way. There are questions need asking and answering."

As Cooper turned from the animal laid open on the table nearest him, he found himself face to face with the woman so maligned. She sat casually on one of the tables, impervious to the blood and fluids that flecked its surface. Her long, white hair, was left loose; flowing to an impossible length down over her shoulders and onto the table in great whorls of wind-swept locks. Her skin was equally an impossible white that he might have mistaken for the color of undeath had it not been for the faint rosy blushes on her face and shoulders. She was naked, as far as he could tell, save for the great bramble crown interwoven in her hair and growing up out of the separation of tresses into a thicket of bare branches that rattled when she spoke. Dried lacings of ivy held the spikes of plum and thistle together; a few ancient leaves clinging to life near the pointed tips of her fawn-like ears. Her eyes he liked least of all. Blue and gold, and lit from within by a potent and unquenchable fire. They were as inhuman as they were mesmerizing; with the wide, mirrored, reflectiveness of a beast at night but instead of echoing light, they echoed vengeance. Her hands, caked in dirt, lay neatly in her lap, absently toying with the pad of her thumb.

She regarded the mage with an inquisitive tilt. As she leaned back onto the table, her hands met with a pool of rust-red gore but her face registered not even a flicker of notice. Nicholas allowed himself a slow breath.

"I am not a witch.” She replied.

“I can see that.” Out of habit, he reached up to adjust his glasses. “And who, exactly, might you be?”

“You’re the one who came looking for me.”

He stopped. Took a breath, and tried again. Conversing with the psychic constructs of the Great Unconscious was not his forte and he was yet entirely sure where this one had originated.

“My apologies.” He straightened his posture and addressed her directly. “But perhaps you can help me. I am looking for something. Something that has been lost for a very long time and I thought maybe you might know where to find it.”

She did not answer but continued to watch him, unblinking.

“My name is Nicholas Cooper. I am a mage of the Hermetic Order. Can you tell me your name?”

“There are many you can choose from, if you like.” She finally stated. “I was once Aimhirghin, born of song, but now no longer. Then, I became Fianait, the wild, who was named Fionúir, the ghost that haunts the marshes. Scáthach, who frightens even the most brave and stout. But then I was broken, and my names were taken from me, so they gave me Gormghiolla, the grey servant. Without memory I drifted, and became Ailithir, the pilgrim, now called Ailith, the one who is ascending.”

“I see.” Nicholas replied. “You are a ghost, then. Were you fae-kind in life?”

The strange woman smiled at him with an almost malevolent glare. “Murdered but not dead. Sundered. Undone. And yet, the sounds of my Name still breathe…”

Gabriel pulled along their shared consciousness, reminding the distractible mage not to tarry too long in their shared vision. Nicholas gave a dismissive harrumph. 

“Perfect. Then, I think you might be just the person to help me find what I am looking for. Seeing as it concerns your…. former kin. So to speak.”

“Help you? And what is it you think I would help you find?”

“A small thing really. Just a glimpse even, if it pleases you. I’m looking for a Named object; lost as you say, but plain to see. Lurking about under our noses, I should think. Do you know of what I speak?”

She elegantly rose from the table to float from one intricate decoration hanging on the wall to another in obvious appreciation. Pausing at a particularly clever twist of stone filigree, she spoke, at first seemly to nothing.

"Arose from a holy day devoid of light,  
leading the sound of bellicose swine.  
Then departed to create his storm of bitter cold and ice.  
On the creatures of the night, he would dine.

A festival of followers shall amass,  
to dance their endless carousel.  
So end your cries, your anxious fear will pass.  
Behold the royal heir to shadows and hell." 

She turned only just enough to catch the mage's eye. "Tell me, Nicholas, are you afraid?"

"Of riddles? Hardly, but I'll imagine you're driving at something a bit more specific."

Nicholas watched the unearthly beauty from a comfortable distance as she drifted through the bloody stockyard, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose with an index finger.

A soft, tinkling, laugh emanated throughout the room, slowly seeping in through the walls.

"You should be."

It was as though her words struck out at the walls themselves, cracks suddenly forming in the construct around them, raining plaster and wood chips down onto the marble below. A tremor passed and the Dreaming began to change once again. 

A vast open square unfurled before them, tall, domed, buildings rising in the distance, their reflective gold tiling sending blinding rays throughout the area. A crowd swarmed through the mid-day heat, the sun raw and scorching at the height of its zenith. Shouts and cries of madness and jubilation echoed through the humidity, wavering over the press of bodies. But the clothing, the people, and the stark colors of the buildings meant that this must be a scene from sometime in the late 1400s. A jester in red and white stripes pranced past him brandishing both a set of old bagpipes and a very large knife.

“The unicorn is killed!” The man shouted, waving the weapon about. “Dead! Dead! Dead!”

Nicholas recoiled. A few feet away, a knight in full armor astride a great dun horse and surrounded by hounds held a shining horn aloft to the cheers of the crowd. Its end was twisted and bloodied, having been hacked free of a body only seconds ago. The knight smiled triumphantly as the crowd cheered him on.

Ailith’s voice cut through the din.

"You haven't much time, Nicholas Cooper. It would seem that history has come 'round again."

Nicholas' lip curled in disgust at the hateful phantoms swarming around him, the sound of their raised voices fading by his will as if he were muting an especially overblown audio track.

"Why are you showing me this?! A unicorn hunt six hundred years ago? Are you trying to tell me that the elven prince of Bathmoora is out for blood? I think we all knew that."

She drifted unhindered through the crowd, reaching a hand out as though caressing the frenzied masses before meeting the Hermetic's exasperated expression.

“He may yet put aright, what once was put asunder. May yet join what should never have been separated. He binds the wound that cannot heal. Gives a name to the nameless.”

“Yes!” Cooper jumped at the chance. “The Name. Tell me, do you know where it is?”

She turned from two men in French caps and tunics as they quarreled over handfuls of a bloodied, silken, mane. “I know a Name that cannot be spoken.” She passed between a woman in a yellow court gown and man in royal auburn velvet.

“I keep it secret here with me.” She plucked a lilac from the trees overhead and placed it in her bramble crown.

“The Name.” The mage repeated emphatically. “Show me where it is.”

The wan creature raised her palm skyward, in supplication to the sun. She then reached out to what he could now see was the body of a…white deer? He couldn’t quite tell. It was lying on its side, splayed out, broken, on the ground at the center of the frenetic crowd. He could make out cloven feet and tufts of white hair, as well as a thin, angular, face and terrible, jerky, movements. Like death throes. 

The noble woman in the yellow gown gaily rushed over as the poor creature struggled for breath. Leaning down, she shouted something in a language he could not understand, though the word “vivant” was clear enough to him. The woman began to poke and grab at it, grotesquely taunting the dying unicorn in its last moments. But then suddenly, a hand darted out from somewhere down near the fallen beast; a small, emaciated, white hand speckled with blood. It grabbed the woman, who screamed in startled horror, as she tried to tumble backwards out of the grasp of whoever, or whatever, it was emerging from the viscera on display. A moment later, the noblewoman was free, none really the worse for wear, except that she pointed at the figure beginning to stand up and shouted, over and over, “Mon collier! Elle l'a pris! Mon collier!”

“Necklace?” Nicholas repeated. He leaned closer. Indeed, he could make out something grasped in the red-slicked fingers. Held high in the bloody, elfin, hand was a glimmering silver chain, torn from the woman’s bodice, and at its end, a prancing horse and a jousting pole.

"If there is one thing, Nicholas,” Ailith now whispered dangerously close to his ear. “That I have learned through these long years of waiting in the abyss, it is this. Behold, on wrongs swift vengeance waits; and the least subdue the strong."

He tried to turn, but somehow she held him fast. “You will never know the truth as I do. The truth as he does. Mo anam cara.” (Gaelic: My soul-mate). He tried but failed to turn again and her voice did not falter. “Coimhead fearg fhear na foighde.” (Gaelic: Beware the fury of a patient man).

With terrifying strength, the woman seized the mage, shoving him backwards to be swallowed by the vicious masses. But before panic could set in from hundreds of clawing hands at his face and shoulders, Nicholas found himself jarred awake rather brutally by an unexpected crack to the jaw, Gabriel's voice splitting the dream and leaving only scattered emotions and tattered fears in its wake.

"I said WAKE UP, god dammit!!"

Nicholas toppled, cringing and spitting an angry curse at the vanished creature as the ache of the impact soaked into his face.

"Hag! Shit ...Ouch."

His glasses cast aside, the boy-faced Hermetic squinted up at the attractive blur he could only assume to be Gabriel.

"Gabriel?"

"Of course, Gabriel!" Came the half-shrieked reply.

Gabriel pulled Nicholas into a sitting position on the floor as he leaned over to retrieve the slightly bent glasses.

"Nicholas, are you ok?! You've been catatonic for over 20 minutes. What happened?!"  
Cooper groaned, a sound of exasperation more than physical discomfort. He shook the scowl from his face with a sigh.

"I’m not sure just yet. It was some kind of…dreamscape. I think. The collective chaos of the fae in the city seems to have, pardon the expression, bled over into the unseen world just as much as it is causing problems in this one. But I think I saw something….it was…. hang on…”

Pressing the glasses into Cooper's hand, Gabriel helped his companion upright. In an oddly comical sequence, however, Nicholas replaced his glasses on his face, noticed their warped state, removed them, adjusted them, and replaced them once more.

"I saw this woman, this sort of forest sprite or other, but that’s not surprising. All kinds of beings and archetypes are bound to show up when one goes mucking about in subconscious spaces. Anyway, what I really wanted was to…" Nicholas stopped short, falling silent and staring wordlessly into the distance. With an expression of dawning realization, he suddenly turned.

Gabriel remained expectant.

"It’s a necklace!” He exclaimed. “Gabriel! The Name fetter is a necklace!”


	10. Chapter 7 -  Le défi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Hope you're all still enjoying the journey! - Nas)

**Chapter 7 – Le défi**

_“The Challenge”_

The fire had already spread to three adjacent buildings before the two ghostly figures made their escape through the gathering crowds.

“What was that?!?” Ailith shouted as Nuala pulled her along through the chaotic back-streets of the Brightwood neighborhood. “Nuala! What’s going on!?”

They paused for breath along a dusty brick wall in an alley not too far beyond the madness coalescing out of the air. “Dream Speech.” The Princess answered tersely, still looking back and forth along the causeway, checking and re-checking that they had not been followed.

“Dream Speech.” Ailith deadpanned.

“Yes. Dream Speech.” Nuala sighed, only slightly confident that they had not yet been seen. “It is the gift of all Elves to speak across known distances while under a reverie.”

“That really was Nuada then.” Ailith breathed, still doing her best to come to terms with the insanity of the last few hours.

“It was.” The Princess scowled before indicating the fire in the buildings down the street. “And so is that! Ailith. Did you Challenge him?”

“What?”

“I said, did you Challenge him?” Nuala faced the smaller woman with growing tension. “When you met Nuada in the Dream, did you set the task by which he might claim victory?”

“I…I don’t think so? I mean, I don’t even really understand what that means but, no, I didn’t tell him to do anything, if that’s what you’re asking. How does that even work?”

Nuala took ahold of Ailith’s arm to begin hurrying her along before responding, “I told you, Nuada has called the Great Hunt, but as the quarry, the rules of the pursuit are actually up to you. That is the nature of the Geas. He gathers the hunters and sounds the call; you decide the pursuit. But, Ailith, once you do so, you have accepted the Geas; the bond that will tie you to him should he meet the challenge.”

“Well I didn’t!” She half-shouted, stumbling beside the Princess.

“Good. Then we might still have time. Quickly then, we’ll take the old trade passages down to the dockside. If we pass through the Troll Market, we should be able to get there without drawing too much attention.”

“How do you we get to the Troll Market?”

“Easy. Any bridge will do.”

Ailith and Nuala rounded the corner and skidded to a mutual stop, barely in time to avoid the two Corvid guards striding confidently up the margins. The Princess yanked her back harshly, just as the first Raven Guard closed on their location. It didn’t seem as if they had been noticed but Nuala wasn’t taking any chances and pressed the smaller girl behind her into the concrete niche. A second later, Ailith’s jaw dropped in terror and astonishment at the great beast rising up before her. It was both dog- and wolf-like, balanced on four massive legs tapering to wide paws with yellowish, thick, talons. A covering of shaggy grey-green fur obscured most of its discernable features but did nothing to cover its steady, terrifying, gaze. Eyes as wide as the moon hanging in the sky behind it panned back and forth as the Hound searched the empty street. It’s tail, a versatile whip-like mass of overlapping braids, flicked around in a kind of circular motion as the creature meandered up the way. Ailith heard as Nuala drew in a breath and held it. Everything seemed to slow and there was a momentary stillness as Fate awaited the next move. It came when the Hound huffed once before raising its cumbersome head and baying loud and long into the darkness. 

“Cŵn Annwn!” Nuala cried. “Ailith! Run!”

Like a white hart facing Death itself on horseback, Ailith did precisely that. Tearing away from Nuala, who for her sake, turned to face the Great Hound and lead it astray, Ailith bolted down the side street and into the nearby gardens of a housing development less than half finished. Fire and smoke still choked the escapes routes to her right but she pressed forward into the gloom of the abandoned construction site. Having little else to go on, she made for the taller shapes in the background and hoped that she could reach a hiding place before the monsters came breathing down her neck.

Panic clouded her judgement and she quickly found herself turned around, unsure as to which way was what and no longer certain that the Hound, and whatever those Raven elves had been alongside it, was, in fact, even behind her. She turned around and around again, both searching for any glimpse of Nuala or any less than obvious avenue of escape. The baying call came again, this time far to her left. She uttered an inarticulate scream of frustration before pausing her flight to begin an awkward, and more than a little dangerous, climb up some nearby scaffolding and onto the carpenter’s platform two stories above.

The city looked like mayhem. Fear and confusion were everywhere; from residents and the fire department scrambling to contain the blaze in the alleyway to people and animals desperately trying to avoid getting trampled as vehicles and crowds raced about in the commotion. She craned her next towards the sound she had heard earlier, finally spying the Princess’s pale skin and clothing as Nuala stood her ground before the members of the Hunt; all who had assembled in the middle of the road. There were now four Corvids, in elongated black masks, and she had succeeded, at least momentarily, in catching the Hound’s attention such that it had broken off pursuit and remained fixed on her position. The Corvids moved to surround her, though none attempted to approach and then turned, swords held high, as though signaling to someone beyond. Ailith caught her breath and clasped a hand to her mouth when, then, she saw him.

Nuada approached from the south, walking up the center of the of the wide lane with the Silverlance extended but at his side. He called to the Hound and it began to back away from the Princess, taking up position near the Corvids whose weapons remained drawn and ready. Ailith watched breathlessly as Nuada came within a few feet of his sister before addressing her. At least, that’s what she guessed he was doing, since she could neither hear them nor make out what they were saying through ad-hoc lip-reading. But if one thing was perfectly clear, even from this distance, Nuala was not in the least bit pleased to see him.

The twins exchanged words, some quietly, some with heated expressions and angry gestures. But Ailith did take note that, at no point, did Nuada attempt to lay a hand on his sister nor did he seemed overly concerned with restraining her when she shouted and all but lunged at him. He kept the spear with its blade safely pointed at the ground but did, as the Princess advanced, turn to his side so that he could try to avoid whatever blows she might decide to inflict on him. Nuala, however, did not reach out to strike him. Rather, Ailith watched, perplexed, as the Princess took ahold of the Prince’s collar and almost made as though she intended to shake him; pulling at the heavy fabric in the manner of a woman offering an impassioned plea. Nuada, for his part, did not appear to be unmoved by this. He raised his free hand to steady his sister and then to loosen her grip from his shoulder. He said something to her once more, in a manner that was even somewhat gentle, but again, Ailith could not understand what it was. Regardless, tt did not seem to placate the Princess in the slightest. 

As Nuada spoke, however, the Hound became restless and once again began to cast its burdensome head about; sniffing the air and letting out three sharp barks. Ailith froze. Had it noticed her scent high on the wind?

She observed as Nuada turned to the Hound and cocked his head, as though listening for something just out of earshot. Nuala shrieked, but it was too late. Nuada gave a curt nod and the Hound bounded away, leaping across the entirety of parked cars, streetlights, and street in a single motion. It took the street after that in a similar surge before running up the side of a low brownstone and leaping, easily, to the rooftop facing it. She choked. It was coming straight for her.

There was no time to think. Ailith clambered down the scaffolding as fast as she was able, nearly slipping several times on the metal bars holding the structure together. But as soon as her feet met gravel, she took off. She didn’t have the slightest idea how fast this thing could run, so she dodged and weaved as much as she could. Running through puddles and small streams, backtracking across parks and playgrounds, ducking into corner bodegas where possible, Ailith did everything she could think of to throw the beast off her trail. But finally, after what must have been an hour or more, she was forced to stop and catch her breath. Even then, she only did so because she had not seen or heard the Hound in quite some time. As such, despite her panting, Ailith strained to listen over the sounds of her pounding heart and frenzied lungs.

She was on a neighborhood street somewhere in the midst of the city. It was quiet, save for the soft buzzing of the overhead streetlight and the hum of occasional activity out of the convenience store across from her. The bright lights angling out through the large display windows illuminated the sidewalk and small parking lot out front as an older couple emerged from the doorway carrying bags of groceries. A single car lazily rolled past and she happened to catch a sign in the headlights that read: Rock Creek Park. Ailith peered further into the darkness but she was only able to make out a hill, heavily wooded, just on the far side of a gate at the end of the block. But she still didn’t hear the Hound, and for that, she was momentarily grateful.

In fact, she wondered if it might even be further behind her than she thought. Taking the opportunity, Ailith took stock of herself. She didn’t have much with her. Still the same small shoulder bag she’d taken from her room at B.P.R.D., filled with a few odds and ends. There was a book she’d haphazardly grabbed, a shirt and socks, part of an old notebook, and a blue coin purse. She glanced up at the corner store, took one more look around the street, and finally walked briskly towards the little oasis of light.

The bell chimed and she stepped in. The rows of toilet paper and gum were suddenly oddly comforting and Ailith breathed a heavy sigh as she finally allowed her shoulders to relax and drop. Immediately, she made her way to the coolers in the back, pulling out two bottles of water and a cheese stick. She glanced back down at the coin purse. Ok, only one bottle of water.

As she was perusing her other options, a man in a stained flannel suddenly appeared next to her, pulling open the next cooler door to retrieve a case of beer. He shouldered the six-pack and turned, stopping to look her over from head to toe. Ailith stared back at him, only slightly more aware of the fact that her rough-spun clothing and unruly hair not only looked rather out of place among the florescent lights and linoleum but that humans often did not perceive her in precisely the way she saw herself. She had been told, more than once, that her crackled skin, which had the look of broken porcelain to most Fae, often looked like bruising or scarring to the uninitiated. She had also been told that she was something of an albino, though her eyes, rather than pink, looked grey and her hair, while snowy white, tended to have a rusty stain along the ends. Furthermore, it didn’t help that her small stature, thin limbs, and angular face meant that she was routinely mistaken for a teenager rather than the considerable age she was starting to suspect might actually be behind her.

“Hey, Princess.” The man grinned widely, scratching at his stubble as he took a step closer. “You waiting on Prince Charming?”

Ailith almost laughed. Almost. 

“Yes.” Was the best she could come up with under the circumstances. “But I wouldn’t exactly call him charming.”

The man laughed. “Well,” he shrugged the beer from one shoulder onto the other. “You can come hang with me tonight. I’m charming.”

“No.” She responded distractedly. “I’m not…available.”

“Hrn.” He took another step closer. “Look, baby, it’s fine. Ok? We can just…”

Ailith tensed as her would-be suitor suddenly stopped mid-sentence, swaying on his feet, his eyes glazing over, and a dribble of spit rolling out onto his chin. She turned in the aisle, expecting to see some manner of terrible creature, or even Nuada himself, bearing down on her unheard. She made ready to attack.

“No worries, no how.” Came the belabored voice of the attendant clerk as she sauntered towards Ailith and the man now clearly in a complete stupor. She appeared to be an older woman, in her mid-60s perhaps, dressed in printed blouse and black jeans covered over by a blue apron emblazoned with the store logo. To Ailith, however, she was also a gnomish-looking Boggin woman. Short, stout, and predisposed towards household and domestic work, her hands looked calloused and rough, with a long knot of greyish-black hair tied in a bun on the top of her head. 

“He’s a regular here, I’m afraid.” She continued, poking at the comatose man who gurgled and nearly fell over. “Always tries to chat up the young ladies even though I’ve told him not to.”

“What…. what’s wrong with him?”

“Wrong? Oh, nothing. Just a little glamoury between friends, right?” The clerk smiled and motioned for Ailith to follow her back towards the counter. As she did so, the man appeared to come to, looked down at the floor for a moment, and then over at his beer. He then walked in a circle rather dumbly for a second before seeming to come to some sort of conclusion about his present circumstances. He then casually dropped the six-pack down onto a nearby kitchen cleaner display and wandered out the door.

“Bye, Jack!” The clerk called after him, sighing and shaking her head. “Every time he does that, I just slap him with a little chicanery and he goes about his business. Never remembers it though, so he just keeps coming back and doing it all over again. Is that all I can get’cha?”

Ailith startled. “Huh? Oh! The water and cheese. Yes, please.”

The Boggin-woman eyed her suspiciously. “You Ok? You sure you don’t need anything else?”

“Well, I don’t know.” Ailith shrugged, placing a handful of coins on the counter before picking up the cheese stick and taking a deep drink from the water bottle. “Can you…” She stopped and looked conspiratorially around the otherwise empty store. “…can you tell me how to get to the…Troll Market?”

“Honey, there is nothing in the Troll Market you could possibly need.”

Ailith sighed. “I know, maybe, I mean…can you tell me how to get there anyway?”

The clerk pulled up the barstool behind the counter and sat down, crossing her arms and regarding the small girl with consternation.

“You in some kind of trouble?”

“I….”

“My name’s Barbara, by the way. Barb is fine.”

“Boronia.” Ailith corrected, immediately and without even thinking before she spoke. But just as soon as she said it, she regretted it and cringed as the clerk’s face shot up, eyebrows raised clear to her hairline.

“What did you say?”

“Sorry.” Ailith offered as she deflated next to the counter. “It’s a terrible habit, I didn’t mean to do that. It just…comes out sometimes. Usually when I don’t want it to.”

To her surprise, the clerk actually chuckled and rocked back on the stool with obvious amusement. “Well, then. No fooling you, I guess. Hell of a trick. Where’d you learn to do that?”

Ailith giggled in relief, happy to see the jovial woman hadn’t taken offense. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know where you learned your magic?”

“No. Not anymore.” She peeled open the plastic package and took a bite of the cheese stick. “I mean, I know the memories are there, I just can’t seem to reach them. It sounds dumb.”

“Nah, not dumb. So, tell me. What are you doing then, out and about at this time of night? And don’t think I’m one to be fooled here either, ok? I know what it looks like when someone’s running.”

“Yeah.” Ailith glanced out the window, still unsure if it was safe to remain this long. She really needed to get moving again, but the clerk was so kind and the store was warm. She wondered if that might be the Boggin’s magic; they were, after all, the Fae of the Hearth and Home. “I, uh…was trying to get to the Troll Market and get a ship there? I think?”

“You think?”

“Well, there was someone with me before and she knew the way but…we got separated. And, I don’t really know how to get there.”

“Ship at the Troll Market, huh? This wouldn’t have anything to do with a Hunt going on right now would it?”

Ailith nearly spit her cheese out onto the counter, looking up at the woman with alarm and dread. 

“Oh, don’t give me that. I’m not going to tell anyone. You’re safe here. In fact, here, have one of these candy bars. Walnuts and hazelnuts, they’re really to die for and you look like you could use a few.” Ailith hesitantly accepted before Barbara continued. “Anyway, I wouldn’t recommend you getting into the Troll Market right now. I’m not the only one and everyone knows there’s a Hunt on. Down there, likely to get into more trouble than you think. Now eat that.”

Defeated, Ailith opened the chocolate and began to nibble at it. Walnuts weren’t her favorite thing but she was quite hungry and the gift was appreciated. Moreover, it actually even made her feel less tired and more energized to accept it. Hmmm. Boggins.

“So, now what I am going to do?” She asked. Barbara nodded knowingly.

“Huh. As I see it? You’ve only really got a couple of options.”

“Like what?”

“Let’s see. You don’t have much of a memory, don’t know where things are, and, I’m guessing, don’t really have much money or any place to go. And, let me tell you, D.C. is not the place for a pretty girl to be wandering around by herself in back alleys and homeless camps at midnight.”

Ailith looked down at her frayed clothing and muddy shoes. Barbara was right, of course. She had only a few coins left in terms of funds and essentially no idea where she was or where she was going. Nuala had sacrificed her own escape to divert the Hound, but to what end? True, Nuada had not caught her just yet but he would soon enough if she was left to wander aimlessly on her own. She nodded in acknowledgement of Barbara’s assessment.

“That pretty much means you can either finish the Hunt. On **your** terms,” Barbara noted. “Or, you can give up now and hope the people looking for you take you in somewhere decent.”

“What do you mean, on **my** terms?” 

“Well, it’s up to you, isn’t it? What do you want out of all this? Ask for anything. Want your memory back? Get it. You want a nice home? Get that too. You want your friends taken care of or money or, hell, a nice vacation. Just say so. If he doesn’t agree or doesn’t hold up his end of the Bargain, well, then, nothing to worry about anyway.”

Ailith chewed the last of her chocolate bar pensively. “You make it all sound so simple.” She mumbled through a few hazelnut crumbs. “But let’s not forget, at the end of all this I end up…. betrothed.”

Barbara laughed again and shifted on her stool. “What’s wrong? You don’t like him?”

Ailith rolled her eyes. “I like him just fine. He’s just…. well…”

“Difficult?”

“Difficult.”

Barbara straightened her apron and nodded a greeting as the door chimed and an elderly man in a wool coat shambled past the counter towards the soda machine.

“So, don’t do it then. Maybe he finds you, maybe he doesn’t. But unless you agree to the terms and send out the Challenge, ain’t nothing gonna come from any of it.”

The soda machine roared to life, spurting out nearly half a gallon of cola into a cup the size of a small bucket as the man went about gathering a few snacks. Ailith watched him for a moment before turning back to the clerk as she punched in the codes for the drink.

“You seem so sad.” She observed.

“Sad? Nah. Things are what they are. Nothing promised, nothing expected, right?”

“I don’t understand.”

The man shuffled quietly up to the counter and laid several bills down in front of Barbara. From beneath his hat, Ailith made out the subtle tips of pointed ears and one eye that had gone cloudy with age and infirmity. Barbara, however, whipped through the transaction, handed the man his change, and bid him a fond good night in less time than it had taken to fill the cup. The man turned, smiled, and nodded towards the two women before gathering his things and disappearing back into the night.

“See that?” Barbara crossed her arms and shook her head. “That’s Elijah. Sweetest person you will ever meet. Not much left of him though. Lost sight in his one eye some years ago, then went mute after that. Hasn’t said a word in five years. His daughter tries to look after him but ever since she had that second kid, not a lot of time. Comes down here twice a week, gets himself a big old cup of Coke, some chips and crackers, and heads off home to his cat and his bird. All he’s got left now.”

“What happened to him?”

“Life, honey.” Barbara sniffed. “Life happened. All the banal little things that build up over time happened. All the little failures and then the big failures and then getting sick and then people dying and leaving and life. Depression and debt, that’s where it’s at. It’s what does us all in. Didn’t used to though.”

Ailith stared at the door where the old man had just been seconds before. Beyond the glare of the ATM sign, she could still see a little of his coat, fluttering against the wind, as he slowly made his way down the darkened street.

“Didn’t used to?”

“No, way back when, there used to be enough to go around. And I don’t mean money and that shit. I mean hope. Light. Laughter. Joy. Magic. All of it. Yeah, sure, get old, get crotchety, have limbs fall off, and decay with the best of them but goddammit we did it all with sheer delight. You might be an old crone but you sure as hell weren’t spending the last bit of enchantment left in the world stunning greasy perverts in a convenience store so they’d stop mackin’ on every woman unfortunate enough to be in the same room with ‘em.”

“Barbara, I…I can’t change that.” Ailith pursed her lips, picking anxiously at her fingers.

“I know, honey.” She answered softly. “No one’s saying you had to. You’re stuck here with the rest of us and it’s all gonna go down like it always goes down. But, please, sweetie, seriously, don’t be grubbing around looking for the Troll Market and all that. Nothing but problems down there and none of those problems need to be your problems.”

“Ok. Can I ask you something, though?”

“Of course.”

“If you thought that there was someone who could change it all, could somehow make it better, but in order to do it, you had to had to, like, basically marry this person, even though this person was really…. really…”

“Difficult?”

“Difficult. …Would you?”

“Full truth?”

Ailith nodded.

“I don’t know. That’s the honest answer. It would really depend on whether or not I had any say in how things went down, you know, in how it was all going to play out. But if I thought I could really do something, I mean, really make a change out there for a whole lotta people, then yeah, I think I might. Then again, it’s not like I have a lot of other options, you know what I mean? Store’s nice and we got a nice community around here but, uh, it’s not exactly springtime and sunshine.”

The florescent bulb over their heads flickered in and out ominously. 

“Well, looks like you better get going, honey.” Barbara smiled, slipping two additional chocolate bars into Ailith’s bag while she glanced nervously out the plexiglass door.

“Yeah.” She breathed. “I guess I should. Thank you, Barbara. Thank you for being so kind to me.”

The elder woman nodded, patting her hand reassuringly. “Whatever it is you choose to do, it will be the right choice, Ok? You do what you think is right and if you just keep doing that, then nothing that comes after it is going to be something you truly regret. And for the rest of it? Eh. It’ll all shake out one way or another.”

Ailith nodded and smiled. She then readjusted the strap of her shoulder bag, took a deep breath, looked back at the clerk and counter one last time, and walked out of the store.

The street was oppressively silent. No cars. No people. Almost no sound at all. The lights of nearby apartment buildings had all gone out and the only remaining bastion of safety and solace was a convenience store in a broken-up parking lot, advertising two-for-one bread and milk specials. The only lights still holding out against the inevitable encroachment of night were an ATM ten years out-of-date and a neon sign still mostly green and pink where it wasn’t a corroded mess. Ailith set her jaw and looked out into the starless murk. She imagined she could see a hulking figure of a monstrous dog there, its heavy breathing the sound of the generator kicking in behind the ice machine. She imagined there was someone already waiting there for her, weapon drawn, out in the darkness and in the silence. She could almost feel it and it was the last moment of indecision she would experience that night.

She pulled the strap of the shoulder bag over her head and dropped it onto the concrete curb. Ailith then strode out into the street, where the last remnants of light ended in a pool of washed-out yellow before meeting the first shadows of the hill and woods beyond. She planted her feet there, daring the night to move her; balled her hands into fists and felt the stutter in her throat as she willed her voice to work without falter. From this moment on, there would be no going back. But, if she was being honest with herself, there had never been anything for her to go back to either way. There was only forward which had only ever been forward. Resolute, she addressed all that lay before her.

“For I am bound by gratitude,” She called out, loud and clear. “Bound by blood, by fate, by love, to he; the very one not yet subdued. To kin and clan across the sea, whose hope may now stand renewed. Therefore, my Geas, is made tonight.” She paused to let the quiver in her voice pass. “Not from force but choice, as is my right.”

The night itself held its breath and the world stopped to listen.

“Nuadha Airgeadlámh, macBalor, mac Gíallchad, Llaw Eraint. Who is called Finn Fáil, I Challenge you. Prince of Éirinn, Heir of Bathmoora, I Challenge you. Tiarna an Claidheamh Soluis…. I Challenge you.”


	11. Chapter 8 - La Mémoire des Arbres

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Thank you to all of you who've commented on the story so far. I really can't tell you how much I appreciate your kind words and your interest in this story. It's been fun to write but you truly do keep me motivated! As such, I'm pleased to offer you the next chapter in our saga. - Nas)

**Chapter 8 – La Mémoire des Arbres**

_“The Memory of Trees”_

“Nuadha Airgeadlámh, macBalor, mac Gíallchad, Llaw Eraint. Who is called Finn Fáil, I Challenge you. Prince of Éirinn, Heir of Bathmoora, I Challenge you. Tiarna an Claidheamh Soluis…. I Challenge you.”

He was the first to hear it. Every sound, every spoken syllable of his Name in perfect cadence with the heartbeat of the world. He knew where it was coming from and he knew who was speaking it. Her voice came to him easily, welling up from his subconscious along the familiar paths of the Dream they had already shared. He bowed his head, and waited.

She stated her Challenge succinctly, using a simple customary rhyme, letting the threads of the Geas intertwine with it and give it substance. 

“A rite of kings is hidden, find it.  
A wound is bleeding, bind it.  
Hope was lost, return it.”

Nuada tilted his head and listened as the deep, eldritch, magics of the Earth rose up to meet the words and to weigh them against the memories that Ailith no longer possessed. As the Geas was brought into being, the very trees around him bent and swayed with fervor as they recited the Challenge he was to meet.

Oak raised its voice first: “Upon the stone of Lia Fáil has every great king been crowned, for it cries out in joy when the Sovereign returns to his own.”

Followed by Birch and Willow in time: “But before it can be revealed, the blessing of ascension you must secure from the only other who might lay claim to the throne. If it is not given, no force may be brought to bear, and you must leave then with this burden of acceptance in payment of the pain that came before.”

Then Ash, to add its own distinction: “And back into exile, never to return again.”

And Elm, entwined with Mistletoe: “But if it comes with promise in good faith, raise then that which gave you life anew and bring it to the place that She shall name, where a guardian stands before a jumbled corpse, consumed by trees. Fell the guardian, and return what was taken.”

Finally, Holly, hidden in the mire: “Do this, and the Name is reborn upon the night she receives you, in the bower beneath the sun.”

He breathed slowly, letting his eyes close as the first bonds of the Geas began to form and take hold of his soul; tying his Fate and his desires to the churning cycles of seasons, to the laws and obligations of oath-keeping, and to the whims of the green and wild places of the Earth. He did not resist it, even when it became painful. The commotion around him fell away, from the Corvids and the Hound and his sister, while his mind drifted into meditative silence. From there, he could almost see her again.  
Without hesitation, he answered the ultimatum laid before him.

“Mar a deir tú. I accept.”

~~**~~

Ailith stood, staring out at the darkness, for longer than she knew.

It was done. The Geas now bound them both in its endlessly twisting, spreading, roots and ropes of chthonian magic. It sunk down into the Earth; churning up old, buried, secrets and awakening things in the deep that had not stirred in an age. The world around her began to rouse and the trees in the park just beyond her vision quaked with new life. But the task was set and all she needed to do now, was wait. Nuada would either meet the Challenge, or he wouldn’t. Either way, the world from this moment on would be a very different place for her.

She looked up, somewhat surprised to hear what almost sounded like a distant cacophony of voices calling out to her. In the shadows of artificial lamplight, she could see the hill across the street and, for a moment, she thought she could see the woods starting to… climb it? Small saplings bounding up the grass with playful excitement as older, weightier, grandmother trees ambled behind and admonished them to slow down and find their footing. She wandered forward, a little unsure as to what she would see when her vision became clearer.

Ailith then came to a stunning realization. She remembered this park. It was the same place wherein the agents of B.P.R.D. had first found her and taken her in; after having removed a pair of bodies from…. she gasped…. the trees! The words from her very first conversation with Nuala came back to her.

“There was a man in Rock Creek Park.” She had said, forever ago in the library. “He was shot by these two men trying to steal his wallet. His name was Tom, the man who was shot. I remember seeing him lying in the grass, he was bleeding and scared.”

Ailith stepped gingerly through the half-open gate and out onto the paved walkway where a weeping cherry tree in full riotous bloom gaily traipsed past her, only to come to a stop when two oak trees reached out to unwrap their roots from a boulder blocking the path. 

Her own voice continued in her mind. “I remember walking over to him and telling him not to be afraid, that everything was going to be alright. I’m not sure how I knew he was going to be OK but as I watched, I could see the blood that was spreading on his shirt was stopping, and then it was like it…. reversed, or something. It bled back just as it had come out. His shirt wasn’t even stained. I held his head in my hands but he kept telling me to run away, that the men who had shot him would come back. Even stranger, I remember telling him that they wouldn’t, that the men with the gun had angered the trees and that they wouldn’t be coming back. Not ever.”

The woodland everywhere was alive and Ailith’s eyes widened in awe. The entire forest was rejoicing! Dancing wildly, roots tearing up from the ground as elms, willows, and ash trees, hundreds of years old, swayed and rolled in their utter elation. Still partially frozen ground was turned over and a scattered mess of snowdrops and crocuses burst out from the soil as leafy buds split through winter-darkened branches to wash the world green.

“But I don’t remember why I told him that or what I meant by it. I can only remember that it had something to do with the blood going back, something about blood and trees and the water from tears and something else. The last thing I can remember before here then was a light. There was a light in the trees and it was coming towards us. And then that’s it.”

Despite herself, Ailith laughed and smiled at the antics playing out before her. It was like a grand performance, a kind of welcoming dance, for a prodigal child they were completely overjoyed to see. Several of the trees even approached, reaching out their lowest branches to touch her hair and then her face. When she responded by running her fingers over their rough edges, they trembled and shook, the sounds of their voices emanating from deep within the heartwood at their centers. She heard them then, she heard and understood everything they said. Not in talk, so much, but in images and tastes and scents carried in on a cool, spring, breeze. Sentences formed out of flowers and pollen, ideas expressed in the insects hiding along the bark, and words tapped out in the rustlings and murmurings of leaves overhead. An ancient and bent oak rambled up to her and, without fear, she stepped into it and wrapped her arms around its knotted base.

“Jenny’s Has More Leaves.” She laughed warmly. “That is your Name, isn’t it? It was given to you by a little girl a very long time ago.” 

But then her face fell and she gently laid her cheek against the heaving trunk. “You miss her. You wonder why she didn’t come back. I don’t know, I wish I did. But you have all these wonderful memories of her, don’t you?”

The wood shifted and groaned in sad repose.

“Well, that’s all we can do. Keep our memories safe. And then, she’s always with you. When you’re ready to leave your acorns, you can scatter them in her honor.”

She thought on it then and starkly realized that, aside from this place, this set-aside urban park, she had no other real memories than that of Nuada. The times she had snuck into the dim cell to while away an afternoon or spend an evening were what she thought back on when she did any kind of remembering at all; of everything or herself. Unconsciously, her fingers entwined with the carousel necklace she still wore, running the pad of her thumb over the curiously carved initials: ALM. What did it stand for, she wondered? And not for the first time. Were they an indication of her own name? Or something else? Did Nuada know?

Safely ensconced in the protection of the trees, her feet precariously balanced on two large roots that the oak had raised up to carry her, she recalled her favorite image of him. He had been sitting on the floor, in an introspective pose, at the front of his glass cell. More ruminative than contemplative, he had been that way for nearly an hour before she had come upon him. Closing the short distance between the door and the barrier on bare feet, he didn’t immediately notice her presence (or if he had, had given no indication of it). As such, she’d had her first real chance to see him unobscured. She had observed then that he was graceful and strong but with a kind of taut rigidity, much like an overdrawn bow poised to loose a fiery arrow before it had burned down too far to the hand. The dark pigmentation around his eyes and mouth, fading outwards into well-pointed ears, made for a more angular profile than she realized he actually had. Highlighted more so, of course, by the deep scarring in the spiral at his temple and the line that traversed the bridge of his nose. She had desperately wanted to touch him at that moment, and, had it not been for some six inches of protective glass, he might have even allowed it. She wanted to feel whether or not his skin was soft and pliant or stony, whether the scar cut deeply or barely at all, and whether or not the smooth, white-blond, locks were unquiet as spider silk or sleek as carded flax. 

As she had been pondering all of this, he had, naturally, sensed that he was being watched and had opened his eyes to regard her in turn. When she realized he was staring at her, there was a brief moment where she thought she should be embarrassed. To even apologize for having snuck up on him and then spent the last few minutes silently gawking. But whatever words she might have been scrambling to come up with in the moment died quickly as she met his gaze. She wished she knew what he had been thinking about right then because his expression, his entire demeanor really, was so unexpectedly peaceful. His eyes were a serene kind of golden amber but rather than seeming sad, as they often did, they seemed brightly attentive. In that moment, it had felt as though he was looking straight through her, to some unrealized truth beneath the crackled skin. Glimpsing it moving behind the fissures and breaks all across her face. He had met her eyes and almost smiled. A genuine expression but so very fleeting, filled with reassurance and affection and something that could have almost been mistaken for tenderness. A strange look for the fierce Warrior-Prince of Bathmoora; as though something rather unprecedented had recently occurred to him and, at last, set his heart at ease.

Ailith sighed. It was a happy memory but potentially filled with terrible false promise. The role of the Sovereignty Goddess in the Great Hunt was well documented throughout old Celtic history and it wasn’t always a pleasant one. A Sacred High King only ever became Sacred High King in one way, and that was along the Threefold Path. He must promise to enforce the _buada_ (Gaelic: prerogatives), he must honor the _geasa_ , however many, and finally, he must lay with the goddess during the _banais ríghe_ , the so-called Wedding Feast of Kingship wherein he would be espoused to the land, and mated to the goddess in a rite called the _feis_.

She frowned. One of the most famously lurid instances of this rite involved an early Medieval King-To-Be, Cenél Conaill, having sexual congress with the goddess following the Hunt, in this case a White Mare he referred to as the ‘horse goddess,’ before killing and cooking her to be served to the attendant nobles during the feast. 

‘Horse-goddess,’ indeed, she sniffed. 

But either way, it was the _feis_ that officially ended the Hunt and it was the _feis_ that would begin Nuada’s guardianship over the kingdoms of the Fae and his right to absolute fealty, should he complete the Challenge as presented. Nuala had also said as much, though not in quite as specific terminology. Thankfully, Ailith was not under the impression that Nuada had any intention of ever trying to actually kill her. Or eat her. But there was the rest to consider. Was she ready for all this? She tugged at her necklace pensively. 

Something snapped. Suddenly, Ailith shouted out an incoherent noise and nearly fell off her perch in the roots of the great oak. There was a Word, a new Word, where there hadn’t been one before and it came rushing out at her as through cresting an oceanic wave. It crossed through the palm of her hand and bit a wound into her mind. She startled and grabbed back onto the tree, which immediately summoned more branches to shelter and steady her. She looked down at her necklace with consternation; as though the metal had insultingly attacked her without cause. But she almost tore it off when she realized that the carved letters were beginning to glow. The ‘A’ brighter than any other; it’s blue-orange gleam cutting the lines deeper into the soft metal as the Word came to her again. 

_“Ardrí.”_

It was not a Word she knew. Was this a Name? Why was it emanating from her pendant? 

The trees became restless, careening and bending about in a concerned and agitated way; the canopy swooping and sighing as though caught in the winds of an oncoming storm. As they did, the glimmer faded back and the tiny horse, anchored by its pole…or was it speared by a lance?...turned around and around again until the letters were once again hidden behind the worn filigree and musical notes. Ailith took a second to regain her center before placing her hand against the aging oak to calm it, mumbling comforting words to the angry matriarch. 

“It alright.” She whispered. “It’s alright. I promise you. Yes, yes, I don’t know what that was either but it’s gone now. It’s gone and it is just us. I don’t know what it means just yet but I’ll figure it out. You don’t need to be angry about any of this. It’s how things are going to be, I think. Because this is the time. I feel that. It is the time for us just as much as it is the time for you.” 

The trees were not convinced and relayed their unease in chittering birdsong. Ailith smiled and replied. “Spring has come, don’t you see? True Spring. And you must not fret. Nuada will not hurt me. He is as much a part of this rhythm as we are and if he is able to rise above himself at last, and keep his promises, then it will be a better world for everyone. I’ll make sure of that.” 

The old oak moaned and dipped its considerable crown. 

“But, now I need to ask something of you. Of all of you. Because, you see, I seem to have lost my memories. I don’t know where I am supposed to go now or what I am supposed to do, but I know it’s something important. I think there was a time when I knew these things, but it’s gone now. Can you reach back through your rings and show me what I am missing? Can you be my memory?” 

A raucous din arose among the forest as the trees each began to speak all at once. The eldest oak was the first to respond by pulling them all deeper into the thicket and retreating, with Ailith, into the furthest part of the wooded oasis. After which a weeping willow came trundling up to inform the gathering that the Geas had been confirmed and that it was time to bring the Unicorn to the appointed place. Beech then approached, admonishing them all to take things in their proper order and not be rushing about as squirrels. Ailith hardly had to wonder what exactly this meant as the grove took its time to settle and began the tale she had been dreading to hear. These, then, were the memories that had first come to her in the Dream by the fireplace. 

Ailith listened intently as the trees told her the story of whence she had come. Listened in silence as the lady bugs and mayflies wove the tale of a Hunt gone terribly wrong in the centuries before this one. Listened as slugs and cicadas explained how a human had fraudulently taken the place of the rightful Huntsman. How the Huntsman had been murdered and consigned to the bog with his throat cut and then the Unicorn slaughtered. How crowds had cheered as she was torn apart by butcher’s knives and her horn severed and paraded about as a trophy of her gruesome end. She listened to the lichen and ivies as they sobbed through the worst of the injustices meted out against the Fae as they attempted, and failed, to reclaim the body of their stolen Queen afterwards. They recounted, again and again, how heroes had sworn to quests to retrieve the alicorn until so much time had passed that it was lost to rumor and speculation. And then, to myth. It was the butterflies, however, that truly broke her heart as they gently recounted the sorrows of a Kingdom that then witnessed the end of its noble houses, the destruction of its sacred places, and the annihilation of its people; all chewed into fodder by the jaws of the great Industrial Revolutions that followed. The trees had remained burdened with these memories since that time and now offered up all they knew with the hope that their suffering had been for the greatest good. When they finished their tale, Ailith didn’t bother to dry the tears that flowed freely down her cheeks and onto the roots and ground below. That’s what she had remembered. Something about blood. Something about tears. And this was it. 

The old oak stretched out a tiny twig to catch the droplets in the air before setting Ailith back down onto the grass. She took a deep breath and smoothed her threadbare clothes into a semblance of normalcy. The trees began to speak again, but this time of something rather more fantastical, and she listened to them intently. But whatever secrets they imparted that night have never been revealed to Mankind, and Ailith never spoke of it again. Instead, she merely nodded in agreement as the trees offered to open the hidden ways, to reveal to her the Trod through this forest, that would allow them to take her to the next place themselves. To the average human, this appeared as little more than a greener path in the grass, a slightly different verdant shade marked by the occasional toadstool signpost, that wound its way alongside the walking paths and into the brush. From here, they would travel across the sea. 

“Thank you, my friends.” She spoke to them aloud. “Thank you for your remembrance. You are truly the anamnesis of the world. So, let us be off then. We have something to do now, do we not? Take me home. I’m ready. Take me to Temair. Back to the Hill of Tara, where it all began.” 

~~**~~ 

“Sister.” Nuada turned. “A word.” 

Nuala clasped her hands before her and looked askance at her brother. “You do not need to tell me.” She started. “I heard it.” 

“Then you know what Ailith has done.” He stated, matter-of-factly. 

“Yes.” She answered. “She has made her choice. I fear, to her detriment.” 

Nuada drew close, but not threateningly. “You know very well already that she will come to no harm by my hand. The Oath of Protection stands.” 

“I know.” The Princess sighed. “That is not what I mean. It is your despair that I fear, brother, not your anger. A Unicorn’s heart is love and laughter and light but you turned your back on all those things long ago.” 

Nuada paused thoughtfully and did not immediately answer. When he did, it was to pose a question. 

“Will you walk with me?” 

The bustle of the Troll Market filled the air. From beneath the 11th Street Bridge, Nuada had taken the entourage through the tunnels that led under the river, beyond the passages hidden by waterways, and into the outskirts of the Fae settlements surrounding the central bazaar. To Nuala’s surprise, she found that he had already established a kind of short-term presence here. In the stately rooms they now occupied, deep beneath the old rainwater drainage system, he maintained a small court of eagerly attendant kith. The Corvid guards patrolled the outer perimeter of the primary lair, the great Hound stayed happily to the main hall to gnaw on bones and scraps the astonished denizens giddily provided, and he had immediately given the Princess her own quarters stunningly arranged with many of the remnants of the Elven Court of Bathmoora. 

The servants of the household were the first to express their excitement at seeing Nuala; several rushing in to bow or curtsy and ask her if she needed anything. It then shortly occurred to her that, for many of them, this was not only the first time they had ever seen a member of one of their remaining royal families but it was certainly the first time they had ever seen Prince and Princess, brother and sister, together. As the twins thusly stepped out into the ‘streets’ of the Market proper, more citizens and subjects gathered around, though they also managed to keep their distance and keep the way clear as their beloved sovereigns made their way past. And then, for the first time in centuries, the siblings began to converse with genial familiarity. 

“I know you think me cruel, sister. But I can assure you that I have only the best interests of our people at heart.” 

“Perhaps that is so. But your way has always been one of wrath. Our people love you, but they also fear you, brother. And with good reason.” 

“You think this makes me unfit, do you?” 

Nuala sighed, but rallied quick enough to offer a gentle smile to a small Halfling girl peering at the two of them in awe from behind her mother’s skirts. “You will meet the Challenge, Nuada. Of that, I have no doubt. It is not in your nature to do otherwise. But if you succeed in restoring the Unicorn, I’m afraid that you may be unprepared for what will be truly asked of you." 

Somewhat misunderstanding his sister’s meaning, Nuada scowled. “The _feis_ need not be harrowing, Nuala. And what I ask is simple. One night, and then, if Ailith wishes nothing more to do with me or of any of the needs of our people, that is her choice. But she will be Queen by right of the Hunt. I will take no other. That is not so much to manage.” 

“I did not mean to imply that I thought you physically incapable of your duty, brother.” The Princess replied. “I mean that…it will not be enough.” 

Nuada stopped as they arrived in the ornate nave of a space that looked to have once been an ancient cathedral and examined his twin coolly. 

“Let me show you something.” He gestured towards the open set of peaked, doubled doors. 

Unsure but not unwilling, Nuala entered first and gasped. Before her lay the Vault of the Woodwose; the last remaining structure of an Elven sanctuary built before humans had ever laid eyes on the Emerald Isles; though it had also lain dead and dormant since before either of them had been born. The presiding spirit, a deity Mankind had come to refer to as The Green Man, was also represented here. But rather than being carved of stone or wood, as was typical in human architecture, this being grew fully-formed out of the base of a great tree. A face of roots, leaves, and flowers was clearly visible, some six feet high and four feet across at the forehead; hanging, poised, over the expanse below. Vines sprouted from his mouth and nostrils, and curled outwards in impossibly interlacing lattice-works of knots and filigree. Everywhere else in the room, a great garden had erupted directly out of the stonework, covering the floor in a carpet of moss and creeping white thyme and the walls and ceiling with hanging verbena, wisteria, and hyacinth blossoms. To the Princess’s astonishment and delight, butterflies had appeared as well, flitting from flower to flower on gossamer yellow wings. 

“Nuada.” She quite nearly exclaimed. “How is this possible?” 

Nuada crossed the holy space with great care and reverence before approaching the Woodwose. From beneath the thick foliage at its mossy beard he produced a wrapped bundle. It was long and thin, bound in cotton cloth and tied with a strand of ivy. He turned, approached the Princess, and held it out to her. 

Nuala hesitated. “What is it?” 

“I need you to see." 

With delicate fingers, the Princess undid the binding at the top and pulled open the two folded ends of the cloth. She stared down, silently. Battered and broken shards of light played across Nuala’s skin and flitted through the garden beyond. As it did, butterflies appeared and disappeared, fluttered their wings and fell still, until it was no longer clear what was light and what was shimmering wings. Until it was clear that the butterflies and the light were one and the same things. The roots at their feet strengthened and crept further into the narthex, the blossoms changed from white to lavender to blue, and the Green Man rumbled to life in the restless branches. 

“This.” Nuala choked back her lament. “Does not belong to us.” 

“No.” Nuada replied, returning the wrap and binding and replacing the alicorn in the secret space in the alcove. “It does not. And when I return it to its rightful bearer, this…” He indicated the whole of the room and the power contained within it, “…will be returned to our people.” 

Nuala pressed her hands to her chest in a gesture of anguish. She knew what her brother meant and she knew why he meant it, but she still could not bring herself to see this as anything other than a sacrifice. Sacrificing Ailith on the altar of what could have been. 

But to Nuada’s surprise, his sister did not voice a refusal. Instead, she seemed to take in all that moved and breathed around her before looking back up at him and meeting his eyes in a defiant stance. 

“In the years I have known you,” Nuala said, “You have always been capable of profound violence, but I also know you to be capable of equally profound gentleness. If you are to be King, Nuada, then you must reclaim the full measure of your own soul before the crown can be yours.” 

Nuada clenched his hand, but did not move to protest. 

“You must rule by the will of a peaceful people.” His sister continued emphatically. “Can you do that? Can you set aside the Warrior Prince in Exile? The SilverHand? If you are to become High King, then you must choose a new Name. No more Airgeadlámh, but Finn Fáil, who upholds the laws of _fír flaithemon_ (Gaelic: Ruler’s Truth). What say you to that? Will you submit?” 

"Is this the condition of your blessing, sister?” 

“It is.” 

“Do you then renounce any claims to the Summer Throne and accept your place in line as the heir and queen of Bathmoora and the people therein?” 

“I do.” 

He eyed her warily at first and then with certainty. 

“Then I agree.” 

“Tada gan iarracht, Nuada (Gaelic: Nothing is done without effort). It will not be enough for you, brother, to undertake this as a mere contest. As a hero’s task to be overcome and a prize to be won. What the Unicorn demands of you, what Ailith needs from you, is not your obligation or your disinterest, but your heart. So, in this, you must not only find your way forward, into a new title and a new Name, but backwards, to that which you left behind. Are you prepared to do this?” 

Silence then fell between them as Nuada deliberated over all his sister had said and all that she now asked of him. He did take not any of it, not a single word that had passed between them, lightly but what the Princess did not know is that he had been meditating on each of these very things for weeks, deciding at every turn what he was and was not willing to say or do. In a cell. In chains. With a shattered girl and a broken heart as his only counsel. 

He met her gaze again, drawing himself decorously up to a dignified posture and meaning every part of the promise he was making. “I am.” 

“I Name you then, Nuada Neachtain, Tiarna an Dál nAraidi, he who is Maine Mórgor (Gaelic: Of Great Duty).” 


	12. The Third Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Our third, and final, interlude in the story. Let the Great Hunt begin! - Nas)

**The Third Interlude**

_Yet again, somewhere else in Washington D.C._

A cold drizzle had begun just an hour before, glossing the pavement of Washington D.C.’s streets mirror black and revealing the reflection of an upside-down world of drowned buildings and careless footsteps leaving endless ripples drifting across the sky. An ominous pall, independent of the emotional events from moments ago, weighed heavily in the air. The city itself, normally bustling and oblivious, seemed poised and shivering in anticipation. Or dread.

Nameless city dwellers hustled past as a crack of thunder threatened a renewed downpour. Nicholas Cooper hunched his shoulders and fixed his gaze on the pavement, setting a mental route for the magisterial chantry. If some unseen and unheard kind of magic was tampering with forces relative to the fae-kind, someone there would be able to spot it. Lost in thought, he hardly even bothered to look up until he had summarily arrived at the easily-forgettable façade of the private library, situated between a coffee shop and physicians’ offices, that served as his Order’s meeting house. 

N'kai, the youngest if not the most taciturn member of the Order, paused, the book in his hand half way to the shelf as the door burst open in an irritable gust of wind that dashed up the staircase and engaged the nearest pile of loose papers at his feet. He didn't seem surprised to see the great coat and shower of droplets that appeared, mumbling something incoherent he could only assume was related to the recent weather.

"Checking in?" He deadpanned, returning to the book and shelves at hand.

"Of course. Lovely evening. Couldn't resist a stroll." Cooper took the dry wit of his apprentice in stride, even as his shoes squeaked against the floor and tracked water behind him.

"Interdisciplinary Studies in Glamoury? Spiritual Thaumaturgy? Someone around here made some sort of study into the matter recently, didn't they?"

N'kai turned and regarded his mentor with typical disinterest. "Alec most likely. As the Order’s rite master, that would be something up his alley. Why do you ask?"

Nicholas couldn't resist showing a wry grin in reply. "Pet project. Putting out metaphysical fires, saving the world... The usual. Is Alec in?"

N'kai raised an incredulous eyebrow. "Of course. He's in the Room of Circle Black Ephemera, as always."

"Fantastic. Think I'll knock first, then."

Nicholas continued to speak as he strode past N'kai, shrugging the soggy jacket from his shoulders and folding it over an arm. His voice gradually lifted into a low shout as he moved further from earshot and deeper into the chantry. "I hear you're making friends. That's good! You should get out more often, mingle with peer groups! Did - me - wonders!"

As his mentor strode purposefully past, N'kai turned, his mouth open in the manner of a response before he suddenly snapped his jaw shut; obviously thinking better of whatever it was he was about to say. His distaste of vampires was well known and the fact that his very own mentor – fraternized – with such a creature disturbed him to no end. But he was hardly in a position to make a point of it. Instead, he opted to make the bindings on the dusty bookshelf in front of him the objects of his ridicule for the next several minutes, waiting until he was well beyond his teacher's considerable hearing range.

Outside the door of the Black Circle Ephemera ritual chamber, one of the chantry's many designated mystical research rooms, the bustlings and mumblings of one familiar ritemaster could easily be discerned through the reinforced wood and iron brackets. Alec Hill, already well into his sixth decade and not generally given to a nervous personality, could be heard to quickly move about the room jotting notes, making adjustments, and cursing his own perceived inadequacies. 

Noting the heavy construction of the door (and his own lack of physical brawn), Nicholas rapped twice with a considerable majority of his strength.

"Alec? It's Nicholas. Is now a good time?"

A brief pause, followed by the click of well-worn shoes, preceded the massive, ritual room, door swinging wide to reveal a slightly disheveled, if otherwise poised, Hermetic Chantry Ritemaster.

"Dr. Cooper!" Came the ebullient reply. Alec ran one hand absently through his short, gray, hair in an attempt to return it to its normally dapper coif.

"Won't you come in. I was just...well...I was...things are a bit awry you see. Please pardon my unholy mess."

To which it seemed he was not kidding. The Black Circle room was strewn with various chalk and charcoal sketchings, a multitude of books open to various paragraphs, and a staggering array of various mystical implements and components cast about as though Alec and his studies had just managed to survive an unexpected hurricane.

Cooper blinked twice, clearly surprised by the state of the ritual space. But not wanting to be rude, he laughed politely and took two steps into the chamber, appraising what visible work he could amidst the chaos.

"Nonsense, the imposition's mine. Ah, is now a good time? If you need a moment, or perhaps a hand, I could...?"

"What?" Alec glanced about his workspace. "Oh, no, no... I did not mean that the room is awry, I mean that the more supernatural aspects of our dear city have gone awry. I'm afraid the chaos you see is… ritually necessary for the moment. Difficult as that may seem."

Alec took a brief moment to shut and reseal the massive door. "What is it you needed Dr. Cooper?"

Nicholas' face lightened, both surprised and impressed. "Well, actually, that's precisely why I sought you out. I've some interest in the, ah, recent metaphysical fragility of the local tellurian, and I thought you might be the fellow with whom to confer."

He let his gaze wander, allowing a second consideration of the ritual implications to the apparent mess.

"Out of curiosity, do you know anything about the Relative State Formulation?"

Alec picked his way carefully through the nearest pile of papers, gathering what appeared to be a series of charcoal rubbings into his hands.

"Many-worlds interpretations? Why yes, I seem to recall dealing with that quite extensively back in the late 60's in London. Edward Bell is by far the reigning Hermetic expert on the mystical implications of Everett's theories but I always found the idea of non-deterministic events quite fascinating really."

Heaving another large volume from the floor, the elder ritemaster proceeded to unceremoniously dump his cargo onto the central ritual table.

"Dr. Bell recently posited, even, that Everett's theories were not quite right in relation to the idea of reality as a many-branched tree; where all realities are ultimately realized. He has rejected the notion that all outcomes exist in their own version of the past, their ‘own world’ as you younger scholars now describe it. He has posited, instead, that reality exists in a kind of constantly metamorphosing and distinctly opposing duality, and within and between this duality there exists a binary relation between action and action, and action and outcome."

The elder man paused, but only briefly. "In essence I suppose, he is suggesting that there seems to be a more purposeful, no that is the wrong word, more rule-bound nature to quantum reality that posits each action and decision as a choice between one or two determined outcomes. Now I know that sounds overly simplistic and not a little smacking of predestination, but the particulars of his theory have more to do with a rejection of probability in favor of structured possibility."

Alec finally took a breath, apparently realizing his own rambling demeanor. "Oh, I'm terribly sorry Dr. Cooper, I seem to go on and on these days, and forget myself. What was it you wanted to know?"

The younger Hermetic mage regarded his peer with a somewhat grim expression. "To put it shortly? How, exactly, an individual using True Name Magic, attached to a fetter object, might affect a breach into the other side of this theoretical, deterministic, coin. And by that I mean, the here and now. I have a sneaking suspicion it's the cause for a lot of the recent disruption."

Alec's head immediately leveled to regard his colleague. "Do you think so? Well, I suppose that would answer at least a few of my outstanding questions. You see, I've been using the Black Circle room under the assumption that the issues we were facing were necromantic in nature, seeing as all my will-work and scrying to this point have only gone as far as to demonstrate that standard magical energies have been entirely absent from the problems at hand. Therefore, this is not the work of mages, as far as I can tell. But I haven't come across all that much related to the will-work of the dead either. I was starting to think I had finally lost it."

Alec rubbed at his forehead. "But to your question, I suppose it would be, theoretically-speaking, possible to affect the underlying properties of our world through a combination of very targeted, mystical manipulation via the use of some kind of essence-altering phenomenon combined with some kind of...well...anchoring phenomena. Though, I can't say I can think of anyone off the top of my head with that kind of...I'm sorry to say...particular genius in the ways of mental, spiritual, and metaphysical charisma."

Nicholas folded his arms across his chest. "Not anyone, in that sense. More like, any-fae. What's more important, though, are the methods being employed to facilitate this disruption. Metaphysical anchor points are not unheard of, particularly in necromantic studies, such as the fetter I mentioned... But you say essence-alteration is another major factor? Could you elaborate?"

Alec scratched at his chin, humming absently. "The Fae, you say? That’s curious. There hasn’t been a fairy sorcerer in an eon or more. Not since the poet-bards of the Druidic Order anyway, and I’m pretty sure that the last of the lines of Taliesin and Amergin died out in the 6th century. Hmmm. Well then, I must preface my response by saying that it's hard to frame the issue in such a way that does not simply come out as potentially mindless jumbles… but I can try. What it sounds like you are asking is whether or not a Name, I presume with a capital ‘N’ here, could be attached to an object and then used to bring about some world-changing event by adding to the possible choices, or outcomes of choices, any given actor might make?”

“Yes, something like that.”

“Well, then I would say that it still has a relation to the deterministic events I mentioned earlier. Call them, oh, I don’t know, threads of Fate, if you like. But then, the object in question would also have to be strong enough to contain a Name, and as we’re all well aware, such true artifacts are few and far between. Then, the object would need to be in the possession of one who would have the ability to read it, and as I said before, we’ve not encountered a Veri Nominis, wizard or hearth mage, since the last great philosophical traditions reputed to have been passed down by the Angel of Death himself. Names, despite popular perception, are extremely difficult to master and very few creatures, the Fae-kind included, are capable of using them on anything even resembling a grand scale. I mean, sure, smaller Names gets tossed about willy-nilly sometimes, much to the aggravation of the so Named, but you’re implying here that there exists a Name with, shall we say, far broader capabilities? Something that could directly affect the fabric of reality."

Alec furrowed his brow, leaning heavily on the ritual table at his left. "I suppose that would certainly explain much of what I have been seeing tonight, to a greater or lesser degree. Now, may I ask, what is it you believe the Fae are up to, exactly?"

Nicholas paused to chew his lip thoughtfully for a moment. "I’m not entirely certain just yet but I believe that the Seelie kingdoms, or what is left of them anyway, may be in the process of fully reuniting and crowning a new High King. One, specifically, that would have the power to enforce the long-lost treaties and promises made in the time before time. To, in effect, reawaken and rebirth the third edge of the Trismegistusian triangle of Magick. By that I mean, Glamour. I think what we are seeing tonight, is the beginning of that event."

The word that did not pass between them, but hung heavily in implication; that today, this very night in fact, might very well be the first day of -- Spring.

Alec made a sound a little like a cough and a little like a squeal. "Dear gods, do you think so? Well, wouldn’t that *really* be something. Would definitely give the more macabre magical denizens of this world finally something to reckon with now wouldn’t it? There hasn’t been balance of the Hermetic Angles in, who knows, millennia. It would certainly put fae-kind and their kith and kin back on a more head-to-head footing with, well, everything. My apologies, I am boggled by the very prospect! I had long thought the fae to be pretty much slated for extinction. ‘Winter’ was supposed to be the end of them all."

Hesitating only momentarily for fear of providing too much information, Nicholas shot Alec a pointed look.

"Yes, well, I suppose then my next question ought to seem obvious."

“Oh?”

“Indeed. Is this something we need to prevent…or assist?”

Alec shook his head as if to clear a tangent from his thoughts.

“I suppose it should be no surprise that the Fae kingdoms have come to this point, though I am a little surprised that we are only just not finding out about it. They’ve long been relegated to the shadows, even to mockery, I might say. They’re scattered and largely non-threatening, with little to nothing to show for their capable natures. They often fall prey to the Dead, to necromancers hunting for parts, and even, sad as it is, to unscrupulous Hermetics. Not to mention their marginalization from humanity in general for, what is it, just being too weird? I guess this is my way of saying that I am not at all shocked.”

“Nor am I.” Cooper rejoined. “What would be the results of such an event, so you think?”

Alec pondered for a long moment. “Well, nothing instantaneous certainly. But in all likelihood, it would potentially herald the next great renaissance. There would be a blossoming of new art and artists, new thought, new philosophers, and so on. Maybe even new Magick, if you get my meaning. But it would also be the beginning the fae’s renewed dominion over the wilds. There would certainly be death to reckon with as a result. Anyone found disrespecting their domain, trespassing, or even just getting lost would probably not be spared. They might even campaign to expel humans from certain spaces they now occupy. And then there would be the return of the Unseelie to contend with, and all that entrails.”

Cooper sighed. “I thought as much. But that doesn’t answer my question, I’m afraid.”

“No, indeed.” Alec paused again to formulate his thoughts. “So, the Fae have chosen a champion, have they? Someone upon whom they intend to bestow this fettered Name of the High King?”

“They have.”

“And who is that?”

“Prince Nuada of Bathmoora.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Yes.”

“Well then…”

“Mmhm.”

“And how does Prince Nuada of Bathmoora intend to claim this Name?”

“Through victory in a Great Hunt.”

“Oh, my.”

“Yes.”

“Well, I suppose we have something of a conundrum on our hands. The good news is, if Prince Nuada is currently engaged in a Great Hunt that means that two other things are also true. One, the Name has not yet fully taken form in our reality. It has not, broken through, so to speak. And two, it remains fettered. Contained, one might say. What headway have you made into what or where the fetter might be that he is hunting?”

Cooper offered a friendly smile. "Headway? Well, I'm sorry to say I really haven't made much. I’m only just arriving on the scene myself, here, and so far, all I’ve been able to determine is that the object is small and mobile, probably something worn, like a necklace or a pin. And that it is probably in the hands of someone who doesn’t really know what it is."

“That follows. The Fae are notorious for such knick-knack-based chicanery. Bits and bobs and curses and that sort of thing. Great forge-masters, though. Truly great…” Alec's musings were unfortunately cut short as the high-pitched trill of Cooper's cell phone interrupted his thoughts.

Cooper jumped slightly, scowling at the pocket containing the offending device. "How rude of me. Won't you excuse me for just a moment?”

“Oh, not at all. Not at all. I’ll look into this some more and call you should I come across anything interesting.”

“Thank you, Alec.”

Slipping out of the ritual chamber and letting its sizable door close, Nicholas paused to check the phone's display before answering the call.

The phone obliviously chimed again, the screen reading ‘N'Kai.’

"As though he couldn't walk a few hundred feet. Honestly."

Nicholas connected the call and lifted the phone to his ear, beginning to walk back towards the chantry entrance where last he saw his apprentice.

"Yes?"

N'Kai's typically deadpan tone was unmistakable. "Normally I would not be doing this, but I'm right in the middle of something.”

Cooper sighed. The distinct sound of something electronic could be heard in the background. “What can I do for you, N’kai?”

“So, my sister just called me. You know, the one who works over at the Planetarium? And, yeah, something about the trees in Rock Creek Park…. talking. Thought that might interest you."

“What? Wait. Your sister told you that the trees at Rock Creek Park are doing what?”

“Talking.” N’kai repeated distractedly. “You know, like, saying things. Yelling at hikers. Kinda trashing the place, I guess.”

Nicholas Cooper froze in his tracks. “When did she call you?”

“Uh, just now.”

“I’m on my way there.”

He hung up the phone but paused before reaching the chantry’s outer doors. It was the middle of the night and he had no idea what he was about to walk into, fae or not. Nicholas Cooper sighed and took one last look behind him to ensure that the hallways were clear before quickly dialing the only number he knew by heart.

“Hello, my love.” He smiled into his collar as the familiar, if perpetually concerned, voice picked up the line. “Yes, I’m fine. But I think I’m going to need your help.”


	13. Chapter 9 – Le Premier Printemps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The First of Spring"
> 
> (So, apparently this has straight-up turned into a kind of novella. Which I was not expecting. But here we are. Enjoy! - Nas)

Nuada sat on the edge of a stone outcropping, overlooking the busy tumult of the Troll Market’s central bazaar; an uproarious plaza filled with vendors, buyers, and performers which was most often referred to simply as the Hive. In the Hive, anything was possible and, if desired, almost anything was acquirable; from food, to jewels, to pets, to books and ritual implements. But Nuada had no interest in any of it, save the fact that he greatly enjoyed listening to the sounds of his people carrying on their lives and joys uninterrupted. 

It was near midnight and the Hunt would call to him again soon, but for a few moments, in the wake of Ailith’s Challenge, he had the time to meditate on all that had transpired in such a short amount of time. Absently, he rubbed his thumb and forefingers together, still looking passively out over the crowd. His hands were the last part of him that had regained sensation following his Awakening in the Golden Chamber and he now found the fleeting numbness to be a quaint addition to the new feelings and perceptions that had come with life returned. 

Restoration. Or should he call it resurrection? How he had not even imagined that such a thing was still possible. Once Undone, there was no return and yet here they were. Breathing. Whole. Alive. And for him, something more. Nuada contemplated the new Name his sister had so recently bestowed upon him. Neachtain: The One Who is Washed Clean. The One Who is Made Pure. Tiarna an Dál nAraidi: Lord of the Lands of the North. He who is Maine Mórgor: One Who Undertakes Great Duty. He looked down at the Silver Lance, with its blade balanced gently in the crook of his arm. Airgeatlámh; The Silver Hand, that which had defined him and his foreordination for so very long. Was he truly prepared to set it aside?

Yes.

Though he understood why his sister and the other elven courtiers around him doubted it. His intent in all that had come before was not simply to rule in his father’s stead; it had been to enact the righteous vengeance his people deserved. It had been to destroy everything in the wake of his own destruction so that mankind would be forced to pay the same price they had extracted from how own people. But now, rather than imminent apocalypse, he found his world to be on the threshold of an entirely different kind of radical transformation. Something had survived, dormant and forgotten, beneath the rot. Beneath the moldering leaf litter of urban decay and deforestation, roots had been spreading; sending green new shoots up out of the filth and into the light. And now, it was growing in earnest, beginning its reach for the sun. Spring had come at last.

But he was still himself though. His hatred for humanity ran deep and he knew that it was unlikely he would ever forgive mankind for the things they had done, for wallowing in greed and blind arrogance while cries for mercy echoed around them. In the end, he'd be lying not to admit to himself that he would take a fair amount of pleasure in enacting retribution for Man's encroachment into the Wild once he had the power to do so. But even so, he could no longer allow his anger and his despair to poison him. He also couldn't allow it to poison Ailith. His sister was right. His people did not want war. They wanted life. They needed hope, not animosity. They needed a chance at something better. Over the years, many of them had come to live within human families and communities. They had integrated into human life or, at the very least, carved out their own spaces in cities, towns, and country-sides. The last thing they would want would be further destruction. The last thing Ailith would allow would be annihilation.

He felt a small tap his elbow. Nuada turned slightly and looked down to see the tiny, two-headed, bogart who had now happily taken up the role of messenger within his household. Named Willowsprout and Lillytwill (though, to be honest, he had no idea which one was technically which), they were typically just called WillLily and they had served him faithfully since his arrival in the Americas. With their twig-like arms and comically expressive faces, the little fae was both well suited to delivering news and to remembering missives. 

“Yes, my friend?” Nuada acknowledged them with a casual nod.

A short, clipped, litany of chirruping and chittering followed, aided by frantic gestures indicating everything from the rooms downstairs to the line of fae penitents begging alms in the courtyard below. Nuada nodded.

“Yes, I do believe my sister would quite appreciate that. She prefers apples to pears though, if there is a choice.” He replied. “Thank you.”

A second round of tittering came next, along with something very near to the bogart engaging in a game of charades. Nuada nodded again and offered his hand to WillLily in a manner of respect.

“Good to hear.” He responded. “I will see to him now then.”

Carefully, Nuada stood, sheathed his spear, and made his way from the overlook, through the front hall of his temporary quarters and down onto the main floor where two of his Corvid guards stood between the open doors and the din of the Troll Market just beyond. As he had been expecting, an Elven courtier, newly arrived from the Hearth of Bathmoora, stood at the threshold. Without hesitation, his Prince invited him in.

“I have brought what you requested, sire.” The courtier in question was far more typical in appearance than the Prince he now served. With smooth white skin and pale eyes, he looked almost doll-like in the dim light of the hall but as with the vast majority of Elves, he did not share his sovereign’s dark markings nor his bronze-tinted eyes. Dressed in the cream and crimson colors of the royal house, however, he was unmistakable as the Herald of Bathmoora, who had stood by the throne since the early days. Nuada knew his name as Nylian Elamoira, and he had always been loyal and faithful to the crown regardless of who wore it.

From the folds of his cloak, Nylian produced a lacquered box, inscribed with the royal seal, and gave it over to the Prince along with a key twisted together out of hawthorn sprigs. As Nuada set about to open the box, Nuala emerged from stairwells and approached the gathering. Having heard the commotion of the Herald’s arrival, she now found the exchange taking place to be a curious one.

“What it is, brother?” She inquired.

The Prince and Herald turned and bowed politely to the Princess, who returned their gesture pleasantly.

“It is this.” Nuada replied, extending the open box to his sister for her appraisal. 

Nuala gasped. Nestled in a bed of moss and tiny white mossflowers was a ring of silver and platinum intertwined around a spectral lavender crystal suspended within a polished moonstone. The Princess looked immediately to her brother who carefully closed the lid of the box before locking it again with the hawthorn key.

“The Ring of Eluned!” She all but exclaimed. “How have you found it?”

“I always knew where it was.” The Prince responded. “Our father presented it to our mother on the night they were betrothed as a heritage gift. When she was Undone, father had it buried beneath the hearth stone at the center of court, so that she would always, in a way, be present at his side. He told me of it many years ago and said that, when the time came for me to choose a queen, I should bequeath it to her in the same way. I promised to do so and now, I honor that promise.”

Nuala gazed hard at Nuada, almost disbelieving the Prince she saw before her. She had always known him to be honorable, to be attendant to duty and obligation, but she had never really known him to be…. romantic. At least, not in any kind of overtly sentimental sort of way. But here he was, speaking fondly of their father and their family, sounding almost affectionate.

“Nuala.” He implored her attention. “I want you to do something for me.”

The Princess raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

He held out the box. “Would you look after this until I return? I would entrust it to no other hands but yours.”

Slowly, the Princess nodded, accepting the treasure and placing it discreetly into the length of cloth that formed the sleeves of her gown. “It will be here, brother. When you return. And if it does come to pass that you offer it to Ailith, I am certain she will find it to be an admirable gift.”

Nuada bowed again. “Thank you. Sister. Which reminds me. When the Great Hunt is over, you should return to your beloved Abraham. I’m sure he’s worried sick over you by now.”

Just then, three Corvids burst through the door, one of them nearly knocking the Herald sideways. Cackles, cracks, and screeches spilled from their lead as he relayed something of great urgency that few, beyond members of the royal family, would have been able to decipher. Like a combination between birdsong and squirrel-speak, the Corvids recounted what they had seen.

‘The trees were awake,’ they said, ‘the Path had been revealed!’

Another Corvid guard joined the excitement. ‘Forces everywhere were gathering!’ ‘Great horns were sounding in the deep!’

The last Corvid jittered and quaked. ‘The Hunt was upon them!’

With a nod and jubilant whistle, Nuada summoned the Hound from the rooms beyond. For its part, the great beast came bounding up with equal enthusiasm and barked an eager noise, pushing its massive, shaggy, head into the Prince’s side as he drew the Silver Lance from his back. 

“Retrieve the alicorn and prepare for the trial.” 

At that command, the six Corvids in attendance suddenly contorted and began to whither, their bodies breaking and drawing in upon themselves. As Nuala watched with a measure of astonishment, each member of the heavily-armored vanguard transmogrified before her eyes and metamorphosized into ravens twice the size of normal birds, but otherwise indistinguishable from them in appearance. As each then completed the shift into a fully avian form, they launched into the air with a flurry of feathers and loud caws, taking flight out through the door and into the grand spaces of the Troll Market; swooping and rolling about as the denizens below ducked in surprise and jumped out of the way.

Nuada offered one final nod to his sister and then to the Herald, who remained attendant upon the new Queen-Apparent to his family’s ancestral throne. Without a word, he then took hold of a thick tuft of hair at the Hound’s shoulder and swung himself up onto its back, sitting astride the width of its withers as one might an unusually large steed. 

“Have faith in me, sister.” He said, looking down at Nuala from above the Hound’s anxious waggling and foot-tapping. “I will not fail you. I will not forsake our people. And I will not harm her.”

With that the Hound moved forward, hunching into the threshold as it prepared to make a fantastic leap. 

“Nuada!” She called after him. From the height of the Hound’s back, he turned and regarded her. “I do wish you luck. Truly. Ailith will not make it easy for you.”

He smiled then. Genuinely. “I certainly hope not.”

~~**~~

Nicholas Cooper and Gabriel Aghasura were in a panic. Fifteen minutes ago, the both of them had arrived to find themselves thrown into a scene straight out of the worst renditions of the Brothers Grimm. And fifteen seconds ago, an oak tree had been attempting to eat them. 

“I thought you said that the trees were talking!” The young vampire yelled up the pathway they were currently being chased along. “You didn’t say anything about them EATING PEOPLE!”

“I seemed to have missed that part myself!” Nicholas huffed, still panting and cursing as he attempted to keep ahead of his partner (who, as it were, had no particular need to breathe while he was running but was not especially happy about the makeshift wooden stakes the trees were directing at him).

Cooper ducked an incoming branch before taking cover behind a large boulder near the children’s playground, which had remained, remarkably, untouched in the chaos. A second later, Gabriel joined him, pressing his back to the rock while glancing behind to see if anything arboreal was still bearing down on them.

“I think they’ve broken off.” He announced.

“I am presuming you mean the chase, and not the trees themselves.” Cooper rejoined sarcastically, still desperately trying to catch his breath. Gabriel simply rolled his eyes in response just as a sprouted beechnut sapling, still partially encased in its thick nutshell, jaunted past them.

“How do we get out of here?” Gabriel glanced around, still unsure as to where the entrance of the park even was anymore. With the trees violently frolicking and reveling across every inch of ground, there was almost nothing left to mark their trail and all of the familiar structures were either missing or had been ‘artfully’ rearranged. The furthest merry-go-round, for example, had already disappeared from the sand basin it had originally been anchored to and was now only partially visible in the shallow end of the pond two-hundred feet away.

“I’m not sure.” His companion answered. “But if we don’t move soon, we’ll be facing off with something I don’t think either of us are prepared for.”

Nicholas Cooper, while hardly practiced in the psychic arts, was not far off in his prediction. Moments later a massive tree-limb came crashing into the granite, showering the both of them with leaves and shards of bark. Gabriel moved first, yanking his partner out of the way of an incoming root just in time to prevent him from being hopelessly snared. 

“Run!”

The both took off again, barely avoiding two more blows as an elm and a boxwood came up to join the fracas. 

“Hey!” Nicholas called out, motioning wildly to their right. “I think there’s something over there! Maybe it’s a building!”

As the faster, and less physically exhausted of the two, Gabriel grabbed ahold of Nicholas and pulled him along and out of reach of the thrashing madness behind them. But to his surprise, as the two of them finally broke into open ground, they did not find a building at all. Rather, they suddenly found themselves in a quiet space of great standing stones, very much like those of Stonehenge but not specifically recognizable as such. Eight blue-slate monoliths formed an outer ring, with four long, flat, table stones arranged in the cardinal directions within them. Just beyond, black shale sarsens rose high into the night, some fifteen to twenty feet tall and arranged in a kind of semi-circle over the north-facing curve of the main circle. It was a jarringly strange place; eerily silent and utterly exposed to the bright glow of a low-hanging moon. It had also seemingly come out of nowhere and hadn’t been visible from any pathway they had taken before. But what remained even stranger is that the trees did not attempt to enter the hilltop where they now stood surrounded, despite the fact that the both of them could be easily seen. Instead, they carried on in their rumpus all around them, swirling around the area in a colossal maelstrom of wildwood. Cooper quickly began to look about them and analyze their situation as best he could.

“This must be some kind of Hedge Circle.” He surmised. “There are hundreds of them all over Great Britain. Early philosophers thought they were likely built by ancient Britons to protect sacred spaces from fae magic and by the looks of things, they were right. It seems to be working. Though, I don’t recall there ever being one of these in Rock Creek Park.”

“Well, it’s a good thing that there is, I suppose. But while I am grateful for the time-out, we can’t stay here forever, Nicholas. It’s thankfully not immediately pressing, but it doesn’t look like the forest is slowing down any and I have no wish to be caught out on an open hillside when dawn gets here. Where ever here is, now that I think about it.”

The younger Hermetic nodded. “Of course, of course. We’ll find something. I just need a moment to think.”

Gabriel found the nearest table stone and sat down. “Thing is, I think the park is changing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you said you didn’t think there was a Stonehenge in Rock Creek Park and I’m pretty sure you’re right. In fact, I’m not entirely convinced we’re even still in Rock Creek Park, you know?”

“Is this your way of saying we’re not in Kansas anymore?”

Gabriel chuffed lightly but smiled despite himself. Nicholas always had something of a dry sense of humor even under the worst circumstances. It was just how he coped. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Alright,” Cooper sighed. “Let’s see if I can conjure us up a way out of here that doesn’t involve running the gauntlet out there. Good thing I always carry chalk.”

Summoning up all of his prior learning, the young mage then set about his task. As Gabriel observed, he began marking the stones with various symbols – some of which he had come to recognize, some of which he didn’t – and inscribing the table rocks with geometric patterns; circles within circles, triangles transecting, and squares to delineate lines of runic text. As he became more and more enthralled, mumbling various warning to himself as he worked, Nicholas soon tuned out virtually everything but the occasional creak or groan of closely passing old growth.

Gabriel instinctively took watch, gazing out onto the pandemonium. Hoping that, for the time being, they were safe enough to divine a way back home. This was not how he was expecting this night to go. At all. But then, he took note of something rather unusual. From his position near the lee of the hill, he could see what appeared to be a thickening of the grass in a line that began far down in the murk of the woods, traversed up the hill where they now took refuge, through and around several of the larger standing stones, to end in the center as a distinctive ring of mushrooms. ‘Mushrooms,” he thought offhandedly. ‘Shit! A fairy ring!’

But before the anxious vampire could speak up, he heard a more ominous sound crashing through the forest below them; trees parting and giving way to something moving impossibly fast through the thicket. He turned, sharpening his vision in the night (as was one of his species’ more common capabilities) and scanning the tree line for the source of the noise. What he saw nearly struck him dumb.

“Nicholas!”

Cooper turned from his most recently completed alchemical sigil to attend to his partner, who was now slowly backing up towards him as something monstrous emerged out onto the grass. A chattering flock of ravens, however, were the first to arrive; loudly cawing and screeching as they found easy perches on the tallest stones. As they settled onto their favored spots, pecking and snapping at one another for the best views, they stared down at the two interlopers with beady, curious, eyes; hopping from stone to stone with seemingly malevolent intent. But their attention wasn’t diverted long as the Hound emerged onto the hill, the great Cŵn Annwn, Harbinger of the Deep; stalking up along the verdant line to where they stood and, on its back, none other than the infamous, and imposing, Prince of Bathmoora.

“Mage!” He called out. “I think it best you not complete that incantation. You will only anger them further.”

Nicholas was unsure at that moment whether he meant the trees or the ravens, but he was not inclined to find out. 

“Stay where you are, Your Grace.” Cooper answered firmly, but politely. “We are not undefended.”

“I can see that.” The Prince pulled the Hound up to a standstill just outside of the bluestone circle. “You traffic with a vampire and I am not one to underestimate the capabilities of the Dead.”

Gabriel bristled slightly but did not respond. There were worse words he could have used.

“But I am afraid that you have found yourselves in a very disadvantageous situation.” Nuada continued. “There is no way out of here but through them.” He made a casual motion towards the forest.

“We have no quarrel with you.” Gabriel took a step forward. “All of the greater magical communities are in turmoil right now and it would seem that the center of that turmoil is here. We had hoped to help.”

“Which is why you are not already destroyed.” The Prince responded, to their surprise. “In fact, your presence here is quite auspicious and I take it as a sign of our Advent.”

“To what are you referring?” Nicholas interjected. “We know of the Name you seek. We know you come on the heels of Spring.”

“Then you know what is about to transpire.” The Prince concluded. “And in that, you have a choice.”

“Which is?” Again, from the younger mage.

“Witness the Hunt, as those who have before you. But this means that you will have to stay here and fight. Few who have ever observed a Wild Hunt before have lived to tell the tale and, now, I am sure you can see why. It is your choice, if you think you can survive the night. Though, I doubt it. Or, you can join me.”

“What?” Gabriel was now well and truly confused. This did not seem like the Elven Prince Nicholas had described to him at all. At least not in demeanor, even if by appearance he was spot on. “You would have us side **with** you?”

“Tonight, is not a night of vengeance.” Nuada proclaimed. “Tonight, we begin a new age. An age of harmony, if not parity. The antithesis of the age that has come before us. Join me on the Hunt and help me set the counterweights in motion.”

“Why would we do that?” Cooper placed a hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, anchoring and steadying the both of them in the face of something neither of them could have anticipated.

Nuada smiled. “Is this not the manifestation of all you profess to believe, Hermetic?”

Cooper scowled. He was starting to get an inkling of what the Prince meant but he wasn’t sure he liked it.

“Are we not the three sides of the Triangle, joined now at the sacred intersections of the Wild and the Mundane at this very moment? As the Mage and his Thaumaturgy stands with the Vampire and his Necromancy, so now do the Fae and our Glamoury come to treat with you at last? And do you know why that is?”

Cooper swallowed and took a deep breath. “And why is that?”

“Because you stand now within the Dreaming and the Dreaming speaks only in riddles and signs.”

Nicholas and Gabriel exchanged a look. This is certainly not how either had imagined an encounter with Nuada would play out and there were far more questions at hand than either of them had answers for, but here they were; toe to toe with the Prince of Bathmoora astride a Hell Hound in the farthest reaches of a fable neither one of them remembered telling. But it would appear that this bit of fiction was going to do far more than give them nightmares. While the world had been sleeping, the birds had spirited away all the rest of reality and there was no way out but onward.

Cooper nodded to his partner and turned to face the Prince. “Very well. We will join you.”

“We will?!” Gabriel hissed, his teeth clenched and fists nearly at the ready.

“We will.” Nicholas whispered back. “Unless you have a better idea of how we’re getting out of here you’re not sharing.”

“Oh, for the love of…”

Nuada offered a courtly bow, inclining his head slightly to indicate his acknowledgement. “Keep to the Trod then and do not stray from the sight of the Hound. We have a long and dangerous ordeal ahead.”

Without warming or preamble, a shape dashed through the trees; something bright and shining moving on fleet and supple limbs between the spaces in the wild grove. It was white and swift, bounding across the distance in strides that would put the Hound to shame. 

Catching sight of the movement, Nuada turned and watched his prey with narrowed eyes; something akin to growl beginning to rumble through his chest up to his throat. Where ever she went, brambles and undergrowth bloomed with joyous abandon; each of her footsteps marked with the sudden exuberance of life. The figure in the distance paused and turned. Gossamer and ethereal, he could hardly make out a discernable form, shimmering between girl and animal…but he could see her eyes. Tumultuous and defiant, they dared him to pursue.

“My friends!” He called out to the assembled Hunt. “The world is deeply sleeping. But now, she begins to wake. And so, she begins to dream. Let her awaken then on a new dawn, on this, the first Day of Spring.”

There was a great cry throughout the city. The trees leapt and howled. The ravens flew madly cackling straight into the forest while the Hound bayed long and loudly into the night. The two companions readied themselves, unprepared but vowing to face it together. And Prince Nuada gave chase.


	14. Chapter 10 - La Chasse: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We're coming up on the end! I think I have this story planned out for another 3 or 4 chapters, so it's high time for a bit of payoff, I think. I also have a bunch of deadlines to deal with next week, so I'm happy to get Part 1 here out a little early. Enjoy! - Nas

“The Hunt – Part 1”

Ailith paused in the clearing, taking just these few precious moments to catch her breath before she’d be off again. With a casual toss of her head, she also flung a few strands of hair from her eyes, letting the mess of twigs, leaves, and brambles caught up in it do the rest. Her face was already smeared with bits of dirt and clay and for an additional moment, she delighted in digging her bare toes into the cool earth and feeling the soles of her feet sinking into the mossy soil. Her linen dress was almost non-existent at this point but rather than strip the offending clothes off of herself and face the rest of the Hunt simply naked, she had spent several previous minutes tearing it into long strips which were now wrapped around her forearms, legs, and torso for better protection against the roughhewn bark of the trees. Save for that and a carousel necklace, she carried nothing else with her. The trees around her, for their part, followed along protectively, weaving their branches together into thickets to shield her from easy detection.

For some time now she had sensed him and her entire being thrummed with anticipation and excitement. Several times he had nearly come within sight of her but thus far, she had eluded him with unpredictable changes in direction, tricks of appearance, or through the irrational machinations of the woods. Nuada was an experienced hunter, no doubt, but tonight they were both caught up in the pulse of a primitive dance, powerless against the emotions that any hunter and hunted would feel in a desperate pursuit through a darkened forest.

Her heart thundered in her ears, both from running and from the primal desires pouring through her. The madness of the hunt had long since washed away any trepidation she had previously felt and now she knew only the instinctual imperative to evade him for as long as possible. Her ultimate defeat in this was inevitable, as she well knew, but it was essential to stave off his victory in this trial until she had proved to herself that the Geas had been earned. She would be no easy capture and neither would the Name she carried.

‘Ard Rí’ had been the first word to form, glowing brightly in the hasty scrawled ‘A’ on her pendant. The second, ‘de Là-arn’ had come shortly after; embedding itself in the ‘L’ as she felt the Name begin to sear itself into the reality of all things. All that awaited now was the ‘M’ and she would know the Name of the High King at last. One more and the power to rule absolutely would be delivered, blazing into the world once more.

But before then, he must prove himself worthy of it. And do to that, he would need to be worthy of her.

A great Hound bayed in the distance and Ailith smiled, despite herself. As was tradition, he had brought others into the Hunt and their talents had proved invaluable. A vampire who could see in near complete darkness and smell the passing of any living being at a league or more. A mage who could open their path and placate the wilder things of the world, even if only temporarily, so that they might continue the chase onto ever more dangerous or labyrinthine ground. A Hound of the Underworld who could leap great distances and run faster than Death itself. And a flock of Ravens who could fly on ahead, scout their positions, and report back with warnings on what might lay before them. It was a formidable company he had assembled but she was not yet done with him.

And she was also not alone. Glancing upward, she observed the taller oak trees beckoning her into the heights. With a laugh she began to climb, moving quickly and gracefully into the topmost boughs of ancient old growth. From there she jaunted across the largest limbs, sprinting easily from tree to tree as they reached out their branches to one another and passed her along through an ever-larger weald. In seconds, it was apparent that she had traveled quite some distance and that even the Ravens were now hard-pressed to keep up with her. Ailith paused once more, alert to any sound or movement that might indicate her hunter’s approach but she heard nothing other than the creaking and thrashing of the dancing wood. She wondered then, however. Would she hear him coming or would he track her silently? The Hound was easy enough to follow as it crashed through the morass, stopping here and there to sniff the breeze. Would that not mean he would use it as a feint and try to come upon her unawares?

Regardless, Nuada was pursuing her; she could feel him. Ailith was almost sure she could feel his breathing and hear his heart beating, nearly in time with hers. Whenever she stopped to listen, he felt closer and closer. She knew he would find her eventually, but the capture was hardly the actual point of such a pursuit as this one. Rather, in the give and take of the Hunt, they were finally able to speak openly, if in a somewhat brazenly physical way, and present their demands of one another for the oncoming Geas. For his part, Nuada has been aggressive and obligate but had shown his willingness to bend to another’s needs over his own will. To set aside the burden of anger, in the end, and take up the cause of hope. He had not truly offered his love though, not just yet, but he had shown that his heart was in the endeavor and that his affection would be freely given if asked of him. For Ailith, she had made it a point to tie her willingness to submit to him to her courage and faith in the Fae people; that while this submission came willingly it could also be just as willingly revoked if hatred ever came to rule him again. Her chicanery and trickery in the chase also let him know, somewhat to his surprise, that she saw him as more than a potential mate in the purely compulsory sense, as the Geas would require, but as a companion and perhaps even a lover as well. In that, there was much more than a political alliance at stake and he had not expected her to be quite so playful in their symbolic game of cat and mouse.

Ailith closed her eyes, allowing herself to feel him so that she might assess again how near he was. He answered, reaching out along their growing bond to tug at her senses. She smiled; they were both getting better at this. She would press her thoughts out into the spiritual and emotional connection that had formed between them and he would respond with a direct, but good-natured, tap to her psyche. Thinking back, once again, to their conversations in the cellblock, Ailith imagined that this part must have come as something of a shock to Nuada; who, unlike his sister, had never previously had much talent in psychometry beyond their twin-sympathy.

A noise roused her from her reverie. The young vampire had managed to spot her and was stalking her from below the treeline. Aided by the Ravens, he was likely within minutes of revealing her position. With a huff, Ailith quickly descended, traversing lower as she leapt and swung from tree to tree until she eventually reached the ground. If the vampire was approaching from her right, she surmised that the mage would likely be approaching from her left. This gave Nuada open ground to pursue her into the hillside if she attempted to avoid the both of them using the most obvious route. She looked to the trees, who immediately parted to form a protected pathway further down into the mire. In the distance, she then saw what appeared to be a kind of bog nestled in a valley cut between two hills. Obscured in thick, low-hanging, mist and guarded by tussocks of grass and peat the height of a house, it was eerie and strangely foreboding. And yet, it called to her. 

Ailith furrowed her brow in consternation. She did not recognize this place nor was she sure where it had suddenly come from. But the trees eagerly coaxed her forward and seemed intent on directing her into the swamp, carefully supporting her on their muddy roots so that she would be prevented from sinking and getting caught. At the center of the basin, near a shadowy rise, she saw something far off, glinting in the grey-green light. What was it? Why did it seem so familiar?

~~**~~

After nearly three hours, Nuada knew he was closing in on his quarry. His companions in the Hunt had done all that he had asked and through each of their unique capabilities he had managed to overcome every trick, escape, illusion, and double-back Ailith had attempted to throw him with. It had not been easy and the trees had countered and frustrated him several times; up to and including one such Elm tree having struck him outright and knocked him clear into the underbrush when he had distractedly trespassed off the Trod (He would have to apologize to Nuala about the cuts and bruises later). He had increased his speed, however, by alternating between moving through the trees on his own and astride the Hound but now, he sensed that she was trying to draw away from him entirely.

So, thought she might chance another escape, did she? Nuada laughed. An honest and natural affectation he had not had in a century or more. This Hunt was exhilarating, and he found himself breathless not only with exertion but with undeniable joy. His heart beat madly in his chest and he felt recklessly and fiercely disheveled, overcome at last with the fury of the Wild. He was almost overwhelmed with the very simple fact that, at this moment, he was happy.

Nuada was also used to this kind of activity and he knew he was likely far more athletic than Ailith was, though she had recently demonstrated that she might very well be more fleet of foot than the Prince. He could continue like this for hours more, but given what he had seen so far, it was actually possible that she could outrun him by distance alone if he did not maintain his focus. He would need to corner her soon. But even then, he knew well enough that she would not yield without a fight. The chase and the capture were not the end of the Hunt, but the beginning.

He halted suddenly. The Hound came up beside him and lowered its massive head with a distinctive whine, encouraging him to keep up the pace. But many of the trees had begun to move off, leaving only the largest and most imposing of the oaks, elms, and weeping willows standing watch around an expanse of open, forbidding, ground. One of the larger willows even feigned an advance upon him, whipping its long, lashing, branches about menacingly. Nuada stood his ground however, and the willow stayed at a comfortable, if strategic, distance. Gabriel and Nicholas followed and both stopped short once they realized that the Prince and the Hound were both waiting. The Ravens swooped angrily overhead, barely dodging the stinging blows of a provoked cedar.

“What is that place?” Nicholas panted and scrunched up his nose, still doing his best not to seem like the least suited of the three of them to the tasks of the Hunt.

“It is a place of death.” Nuada responded gravely. “It is the defiled ground of the last Hunt.”

“Yikes.” Gabriel rejoined, chewing his lip with concern over the landscape ahead. “I take it that things…. didn’t go so well?”

Nuada slowly knelt until he could rest the palm of his right hand onto the cold, spongey, ground.

“No.” The Prince answered. “This is where the Wound was made. Where my predecessor, the Elf who last Hunted the Unicorn, was slaughtered by Men and left to the bog. Where the Unicorn was broken and the light of the Sun stolen from my people. We thought then, forever.”

Nicholas let out an anxious breath. “This is a very dangerous place. Why did the…” He gestured towards the still bright-green line of grass, moss, and flowers beneath their feet, “…Trod take us here?”

“This was always where we were going.” Nuada explained as he stood. “Where I was going."

“This is the trial, then?” Nicholas queried. Gabriel looked at him askance. Clearly, the Hermetic knew far more about what was going on than he had really ever let on.

“It is.” Nuada answered, still gazing out over the wreckage of the land.

The Prince of Bathmoora turned to the two companions. “You cannot accompany me past this point, I’m afraid. You’ve done what I have requested of you and for that I thank you and promise my faithfulness in the coming times. Without your help, it is possible I would not have been able to make it this far nor perhaps would the wood have allowed me to pursue. But the Deep Dreaming is no place for either of you. What I do now, I must do alone.”

“Uhhhhh, ok.” Gabriel looked about them with a significant measure of worry. “We just…sit here?”

“As soon as I have passed beyond the boundary of the Bog it will close to you. The Trod will lead you back safely to where you belong. You will pass through the mists as though you had hardly gone anywhere at all and it is likely you will simply find yourselves back in the park as you left it. But be mindful, the Witching Hour is now upon your city and there will be much in the way of chaos for you to deal with.”

“Figures.” Nicholas sniffed. “But…I still, I suppose, wish you luck. You’ve been honorable thus far and both Gabriel and I are in one piece. A little worse for wear, but in one piece. Hopefully, we’ll meet again when this is done and we can start towards something a little more…. peaceable…. between our peoples.”

Nuada smiled and dipped his chin once. “So be it. Let this be the beginning of a new accord.”

With that, he whistled thrice and called the lead Raven to his side. With a great commotion of fluttering and flapping, the gigantic bird alighted onto a boulder near their path with altogether too much squawking and complaining. Nuada stepped forward, soothing the creature with gentle words in his native tongue. As he did so, the Raven produced a wrapped bundle from beneath its feathers, dropping it into his hand as he unwound the cords binding it to the bird’s legs.

Roll of cloth in hand, he turned to Nicholas and Gabriel as he once again pulled himself astride the Hound, who was clearly eager to be off again and certainly well-suited to the terrain before them.

“On your way, then.” The Prince admonished. “The time has come for me to leave behind the One Who Was and go now to meet the One Who Could Have Been.”

As he vanished into the ground clouds, swirling threateningly through the grasslands, Gabriel chanced a discontented sigh.

“Ok, now I think it’s about time you explain to me what, exactly, just happened.”

Nicholas Cooper nodded, still watching the retreating silhouette on the horizon. “Yes. Yes, I think so.”

~~**~~

Ailith stood at a precipice. Before her, a dead forest of skeletal white trees rose up out of the muck and behind her, the living, wild, wood which had refused to take even a single step forward into the twilight graveyard. There was no light in this place and from here, she would carry on alone.  
But she did not hesitate and set out into the mire with a sense of determination. She had the distinct sense that she was searching for something but at the moment, she wasn’t entirely sure what it was. The trees had told her the tale of the last Hunt and in that way, she understood what she was seeing. At least, in the way a storyteller might. The Dreaming had brought her to the place where everything had unraveled some six centuries before and here, it would be remade; on the Hill of Tara where once it had been Undone. But the sloping ground around her only held a series of dips and hollows and what she wanted was a kind of grassy hillock, without brambles or thorns. She instinctively knew that is what she was looking for; a place beneath a great, white, tree millennia old. 

Ailith stopped next to a blackened puddle and tasted the air. Nuada was still behind her. He had crossed the threshold into the Bog only moments before but he had intentionally slowed his pace; allowing the Hound to pick its way carefully through the treacherous land (as only Hounds of the Underworld could do). The deepest places of the Dream were some of the most perilous fields the Fae could find themselves on and it would be easy to take a wrong step and end up in the Bog forever. From this point onward, she would be leading him to his test, not trying to escape him.

She followed the grey waters further into the gloom, hopping delicately from solid ground to slightly less solid ground in an attempt to avoid falling directly into any one of several deceptively deep expanses of freezing cold water. The glint in the distance grew nearer and she paused again to allow Nuada time to close some of the distance. When he reached out along their bond to reassure her of his presence, she smiled inwardly and continued forward.

The distance was also deceptive and within a few minutes, Ailith clamored up a relatively steep slope, over a tangle of decaying roots, and onto a wide hilltop crowned by a white tree taller than any she had seen previously. It was dead, of course. And looked as though it had been for a very long time. It was clean of bark, baring only its weathered heartwood to the chill wind sweeping up across the moors. Its spindly branches clawed mercilessly at the sky and where its roots twisted into the ground, a great slick of oil-black mud, loam, and peat gushed forth into a lagoon dotted with lily pads made from the corpses of fish, frogs, and turtles. Ailith swallowed and tried to calm her anxious hands. She felt vulnerable and exposed, as though something abominable waited for her here.

And then she heard an odd noise. A light, tinny, kind of sound that an old music box might make when wound too tightly. The pendant at her neck felt like it was burning; the Name contained within it bursting against the chains and bars of cheap nickel and pewter. The sudden pain of it caused her to look down reflexively. It was then that she realized precisely where she was standing, and that this unholy place was none other than the grounds of the Dead. Beneath her feet were not just lumpy rises of dirt clods and root balls, but skulls and spines. Ailith gasped and nearly jumped away. If it had not been for the precarious proximity of the mudslide down into the water below, she might have scrambled off the hill entirely in a panic to escape them. But when she dared to look further, she beheld something out of her nightmares. Scattered below her were horses and knights, jousting poles and armor, gaping angry faces and the moldering remains of courtly dress. Bodies. Bodies fallen as if from the bedlam of a great battle, arranged in a kind of hedgerow around the tall white tree. It was a veritable carousel of butchery.

It was a horrible place, a Wound, weeping despair and darkness into everything around it. Poisoning the water and blotting out the sun, infecting the air with melancholy and sorrow. The tree had grown as deeply as it could; attempting to knit the Wound together with roots like stitches but the festering bile that had welled up from below and flowed here had choked it out. Strangled everything with grief. Anxiously, she rolled the necklace in her hand but instead of simply picking at it, as was her habit, Ailith took a deep breath and willed herself to concentrate. Called by memories just beyond her comprehension, she let her senses distill to a point, focusing on the letters shining beneath the tarnish. She then called to it, to the Name, and willed it to speak itself into life. It was nearly there now.

It resisted her at first. Pressing, as though painfully, against the fabric of consciousness. Then, the first part of it came to her, the one she had heard twice now. ‘Ard Rí.’ The ancient word of the Celts, inherited from the Aos Sí, meaning High King. And then, ‘de Là-arn.’ But that was only part of the second word. She refocused and called to it again as the last syllables bled into reality. ‘ALM’ it seemed to speak; fitting, as it was alms it seemed to beg. ‘a-Mhàireach.’ Her hand flew to her mouth to stifle the sudden breath there. The True Name of the Could Have Been King. _Ard Rí de Là-arn-a-Mhàireach._ The High King of the Morrow.

The fiery letters sizzled against the cooler metal and, as Ailith watched, the necklace began to melt in her hand even though she felt no pain or heat. The tiny horse first lost its legs, molding them to the roundboard along the base. Then the pole fell and the head and face disintegrated, dripping over the remnants of the canopy that had held the tiny figure upright. Within moments, it was nothing more than a lump of ore, with no discernable features other than a few ropy strands of brittle pewter where the worn music notes once had been. Ailith stared down at it, still resting in her palm, thinking it looked more like an odd little stone than a destroyed pendant. How curious. Where had the stone come from? What did it have to do with the so many Honored and Dishonored Dead who long dwelled in this place?

Ailith felt terribly sad in that moment and did not attempt to wipe away the few tears dropping down her cheeks. This Name had been hidden here, in this sickened niche; buried with the bodies and the hopes and dreams of anyone and everyone who had ever tried to seek it since. These were the heroes who had come to defend it; whose bones were now mixed with the blackguards and the rogues who had killed them to prevent it. To more heroes who had come to reclaim it and the devils and wretches who had murdered them for no other reason than to see their people suffer ever more. And around and around and around the carousel had gone. 

But this time was different. She was here. 

A strange feeling crept over her, prickling her skin. She was here.

She…was here.

Ailith chose her footsteps carefully and walked the grassy path that led through the Fallen and around the tree to the wall of roots and stones at its base. Something glinted again in the deep and she drew forward to where it seemed the brightest. Nested in the brier, she could see something smooth and white, almost polished. She took another step forward and felt a shiver move down her body unbidden. This was a face she hadn’t wanted to see, and was likely never meant to. There were empty sockets where eyes had been, a long forehead washed clean with years of rain and exposure, a flat snout buried in the soil. It was a skull. And at its center, a splintered stump, jutting sharp fibrous shards into the light; the blighted remains where a horn should have been found. 

Ailith was caught unprepared when the flood of memories returned. She gasped. It was too much, too quickly. She was drowning in them. She tried to retreat but to no avail. The world began to fade, and so she did all she could to cry out to the only one who could save her and loosed a primal scream that finally shattered the crackle-wear girl.


	15. Chapter 11 - La Chasse: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Part 2 of the big climactic event! Hopefully it's a decent payoff. Working on this chapter was fun, but exhausting. Enjoy!" - Nas

_“The Hunt – Part 2”_

Nuada knew the moment she had stopped fleeing from him and brought his head up suddenly at the sound that echoed out across the moor. It was a sound he knew well; a sound of pure anguish, pure despair, at the Truth of what they faced. And he knew that it came from Ailith. 

With a shout, he spurred the Hound into a fast lope. The Hill was almost in sight.

**Part 2**

The Hill of Tara was well-known to the royal houses of the Summer Court. He knew it as Teamhair na Rí, the great complex of ancient ruins that once held the seat of the High King. In the human world it lay in the far reaches of County Meath near the River Boyne in Ireland, and still contained a few vestiges of the six-thousand-year-old temple that had once stood there. But in the Dreaming, Teamhair na Rí was a terrifying place. So much had been the death, despair, and destruction wrought upon it, it was now something akin to a void; an abyss that drained all hope and joy from anything that dared come near it.

And Nuada knew, more by instinct than memory, that somewhere inside or near the Hill was the Lia Fáil; the Speaking Stone of oracular legend before which all High Kings had been crowned. It was where the Name had once been contained and where it would, should he succeed, be contained again. But before all of that could come to pass, he would have to ascend the Hill, find Ailith, and close the Wound. Deep down, Nuada knew he was in for the fight of his life.

As the Hound galloped on, the Elven Prince’s fingers tightened on the grip of the SilverHand. The blade was almost singing with the anticipation of battle but he checked himself thoughtfully. He would also need to be cunning and to keep his wits about him. This was no time to lose himself to bloodlust. The Dead that guarded the Hill would not allow him to pass on martial skill alone. 

And then, it was in sight: The Hill of Tara rising above the murk as a hideous stain set unmoving against a roiling sky. A charcoal smear blemishing the lines of a pristine page; like a beautiful word that someone had tried to unfairly erase but instead of wiping it out, had only left indelible evidence of their cruelty.

Nuada slowed the Hound and coaxed it into a cautious pace; stalking the base of the Hill to better ascertain the path upwards. It was a mess. Streams of blackened water rushed through mud and debris before fanning out into the heavy tussocks, making the entire slope dangerously slick and unstable. One wrong step, and the both of them would instantly go tumbling down the embankment and into the swamp below. Even now, the Hound had to step carefully onto thick pads of moss or risk dropping a paw into the gulley and then being sucked down into the mire. High above them, the branches of the ancient oak scattered the sky a hundred ways; into a crackle-wear surface nearly shattered by the destruction of a war that had never really ended.

Nuada pressed the Hound again, who snuffled and turned; now to make their way up the lee of the Hill, using the rolls of grasses and weeds as footholds while avoiding the bleeding ichor welling up out of every ditch and channel. He could still feel Ailith close by and shared with her the pain and sorrow that now surrounded them but he also did what he could to reach out to her gently; to try and reassure her that she wasn’t alone. To tell her that he was coming for her. That she would not be abandoned to this place again. 

At the summit, the wind picked at him and the Hound whined with trepidation. Only a few hundred yards ahead, the trunk of the white tree creaked and groaned against the storm. Nuada surveyed the field. There were at least six corpses he could recognize jumbled amongst the peat, each lying face down and encased in mud. Each bore weapons marking their former stations: A Knight, a Crusader, a Cavalier, an Archer, a Ranger, and the Prince of great house, like himself. They may once have been great heroes, and he had no doubt that they likely were, but they were all Nameless now; conscripted into the vanguard of the Wound. The remains of horses and dogs were scattered about them as well and the last tattered remnants of a banner snapped angrily on the branches overhead. He could no longer hear his Corvids in this place but he had expected that. It was too dangerous. They would have to keep their distance.

Nuada straightened on the Hound’s back and slowly released the breath he had been holding as he dismounted and left the Cŵn Annwn safely in wait at the edge of the bough’s reach. The Hill was too treacherous to navigate for a creature as large as a Dog of the Underworld, especially if it was to be in combat. With deft fingers he raised the cloth bundle from his side and tied it securely to the knot of his royal sash. He could already feel a deep, resonant, kind of vibration emanating from the object within. It too was anticipating what came next.

“I am Nuada, Prince of Bathmoora.” He called out. “Who was called Airgeadlámh. Who is macBalor, mac Gíallchad, Llaw Eraint. Once and again, Finn Fáil, Tiarna an Claidheamh Soluis. I come now to Teamhair na Rí by right of the Hunt and claim the Name of Neachtain. To be shown as Tiarna an Dál nAraidi and to abide by he who is Maine Mórgor. By the rule of Geas, I bid you to reveal the Name that is yet to come. Reveal yourself, and be Challenged!”

A shiver passed through the grasses all about him as something deep in the bog breathed its first in a thousand years. The Hill around him trembled awake and something in the depths of the unconscious mind of the world rose up to meet his demand. He heard a voice, rasping but somehow sonorous, carried on the wind, but emanating from the grey water everywhere.

“Níl fáilte romhat anseo.” (Gaelic: You are not welcome here.)

“Never the medicine is.” He replied. “It brings only pain in the moment but remedy in time.”

“Tá an leigheas nimh.” (Gaelic: The medicine is poison.) The voice intoned, shaking the great tree overhead as it rattled the bones of the Fallen ominously.

Nuada considered his words carefully, knowing that the riddle could change at the slightest misstep.

“But only when given too much. What is medicine and what is poison is only a matter of measure.” He answered.

“Ní féidir an fhuil a thomhas.” (Gaelic: One cannot measure the blood.)

“But only does the blood bring healing.” The Hound tensed behind him at this, having sensed a change in the air.

The voice spoke once more but remained an ominous, halting, sound. “Má thairgtear fuil ansin tógfar fuil.” (Gaelic: If blood is offered then blood will be taken.)

Nuada replied quickly. “Only that which was written in blood, can now be made plain.”

The voice sighed, a strangled noise that heaved a dying breath out of the earth. “Tugann Ainm do Ainm an saol.” (Gaelic: A Name for a Name brings life.)

Nuada took a breath and steadied himself. The answer to the trial was hidden in the words of the fen. He need only now decipher the meaning of the phrase and begin.

“Now apt, now obscure.” He recited; an admonishment and a warning from his father from before the wars has split their house forever. “All those who run in the Hunt know what must follow them. All Hunters remember the Battle of Trees. All Victors must answer the Riddle of the Lady of Achren.”

He thought back to his schooling and to his many teachers, and all the stories he had been raised to remember. The key to answering just about any Fae-bound enigma was to apply the rules of the bardic Cad Goddeu, the epic poem within which had been woven the mystic meanings of the Ogham alphabet. The Riddle of the Lady of Achren, a section of the poem wherein the secret Names of Heroes were hidden, came easily to him and he parsed the necessary verses in his mind as quickly as he could.

_The tops of the beech tree_  
_Have sprouted of late,_  
_Are changed and renewed_  
_From their withered state._

_When the beech prospers_  
_Through spells and litanies_  
_The oak tops entangle,_  
_There is hope for the trees._

_I have plundered the fern_  
_Through all secrets I spy,_  
_Old Math ap Mathonwy_  
_Knew no more than I._

_For with nine sorts of faculty_  
_God has gifted me:_  
_I am the fruit of fruits gathered_  
_From nine sorts of tree._

The Hound growled, low in its throat. They were coming.

A specter rose up before him, peeling its limbs from the embrace of the swamp with a sickening ingurgitation. The twisted, mummified, form clanked loudly in plates of brass and steel armor before raising a rusted claymore in both of its gnarled hands. The armor bore the remnants of etching on the breastplate and Nuada could discern a shape like that of the World Tree, with roots below as branches above. This was the Knight, and he advanced now on the Prince’s open position.

Nuada raised the SilverHand and immediately lengthened the weapon to a spear. It was all he had time for as the first sweeping blow came straight at his head. He ducked the swing and parried lightly, testing his opponent’s strategy. A second, over-extended, arc came at his midsection and he used the opportunity to slant the strike and sink the tip of his spear into the Knight’s side. When he pulled it free, he bit back a snarl in noting that the creature was blithely unaffected. There was hardly even a mark where he had pierced its ribs. The Knight shambled forward and swung again; this time with more precision and the Prince was forced to take a step back and block the sword. The hit was jarringly hard and nearly knocked him to the ground but, by the grace of years of training, he maintained his footing and responded with a series of forward strikes the Knight knocked sideways. They exchanged more blows, each attempting to unbalance the other. Then, to Nuada’s even greater concern, he heard a noise.

Each in turn, the figures began to rise: a Crusader with a longsword and a shield of iron, a Cavalier whose forearms and chest were bound in thorns, an Archer with an oak and holly bow, a Ranger with the head and jaws of a wolf, and the Prince left murdered, with his throat still cut and brandishing a blade of silver starlight. Unhindered by the mud, they began to circle him; closing in on every side until the smell of the moldering grave was overwhelming.

Nuada, however, did not wait for them to trap him. He was quick to strike the Knight hard enough in the shoulder to turn it so that he could block the first volley from the Archer. At a dead run, Nuada then closed the distance with the Cavalier, avoiding the first blows of thorns, to turn his position about and put a few extra steps between himself and the Murdered Prince. He was not quite fast enough though. The rotted sovereign caught him hard to the right. He was able to reflexively side-step the worst of it but, unwittingly, it left him wide open to a full bash from the Crusader’s iron shield. He felt it connect with his shoulder, felt his collarbone break, before the follow-through sent him rolling into the tussocks. It was a terrible misstep and Nuada had barely a split-second to right himself before a lash of mistletoe, covered in three-inch thorns, nearly took out his throat. But once on his feet, he cursed at himself and rallied. He would need to be better than this.

Nuada went for the Archer first, catching the tip of the bow in the back-hook of Claidheamh Soluis’s trailing edge. The Archer responded by raising the bow but before it could fire, Nuada lunged past the string and stabbed the spear directly into the Archer’s upper chest and then straight on through its ribs to embed the point into the shoulder blade behind; effectively breaking the bone and rendering the bow arm useless. Pulling Claidheamh Soluis free, the Prince then turned on his heels to meet the expected blow to his back, parrying the Cavalier’s buffeting strikes with the spear-handle. He shifted then, avoiding the claymore now on his left and slashed his blade low against the Knight’s legs. The heavily-weighted corpse buckled and landed in the muck with a wet slap. The Cavalier engaged him again and through multiple traded blows, Nuada managed to cut the thorns from both its forearms and was about to snap the vines from its torso when searing pain lanced through his neck. He withered and lurched to the side, avoiding a second strike by mere inches. The starlight blade of the Murdered Prince had gone partially into his chest, just beneath his right arm, and the wound was bleeding. Badly.

He dodged the next round of oncoming strikes with a tumble and then stumbled backwards towards the outer edge of the Hill to get his bearings. To his consternation, he observed as each of the Fallen shook off their injuries, set their bones, and rose up again. They hardly seemed bothered by him really. Nuada growled, low in his throat, in part from uncertainty and partly from pain (again, he felt he was going to owe Nuala an endless number of apologies for this. If he survived). He was still missing something.

He thought back again to Achren’s Riddle. The last of the great Heroes to have used it was none other than Gwydion himself; the very first to have called the Trees into battle against the forces of Annwn; the Otherworld of the Dead. From there, Gwydion had come to the realization that no warrior of the Otherworld could be vanquished unless his opponent could guess his Name. Such a thing Gwydion then did; using the Ogham Tree rhymes to guess the name of Brân Fendigaidd, the Blessed Crow, who was both a giant and once a king. In the end, he had done so by discerning the marks of the Alder branches on his shield and knowing him to be the Vanguard of Annwn.

_The alder leads the attack, while the aspen falls in battle, and heaven and earth tremble before the oak, a "valiant door keeper against the enemy."_

Nuada drew a sharp breath. That was it. Therein was his answer. He faced now the Nameless of Annwn. To defeat them, he would have to Name them and in Naming them, know the method of their undoing.

He turned and studied them as they bore down on his position. The Knight came ahead first, raising the claymore high in the start of another devastating sweep. But what more could he see? The creature charged him outright; never flinching or feinting and coming directly at him with nothing in its soulless eyes but the intent to kill.

_Uncouth and savage was the fir,_  
_Cruel the ash tree_  
_Turns not aside a foot-breath,_  
_Straight at the heart runs he._

Nuada set his heels and stood his ground. If he was wrong, this was about to end very badly for him. A full attack from the Knight, even partially blocked, would still likely result in at least a few more broken bones and he could not afford the detriment at this point. The Knight reached him and swung, the blade screaming downwards towards the Prince’s neck but Nuada was ready and dropped to one knee just as the blade completed the arc. As it hurtled overhead, he called upon Claidheamh Soluis, gave his command to the SilverHand, which slid instantly back into its shorter form. And with that, he leveled the blade directly beneath the heavy breastplate and shouldered it into the moldy flesh and bones it found there. With a flick of his hand, the spear extended again, shooting up through the Knight’s ribcage and impaling the creature completely through its center. 

“Nuin, the Ash.” Nuada whispered, still bearing most of his opponent’s weight as the corpse suddenly stilled.

A moment passed and Nuada recalled the SilverHand, allowing the now restful Knight to slide limply to the ground as the blade returned. As the body fell, the tussocks of grass reached out and spread around it, the water rose up to meet it, and in seconds, the figure was gone. Back into the mire. But Nuada did not have long to celebrate his victory before an arrow landed squarely in the moss between his feet. The rest of the Fallen had reached him.

Several more arrows nearly made their mark as Nuada dashed for cover in the taller grasses. The Cavalier caught him there and a pitched battle between spear and thorn-wrapped fists ensued. Twice he was forced to take the hit or be shot through by the clothyard bolts whistling past him. And once, thankfully only once, he was glanced by the longsword, leaving a searing new cut from the rise of his cheekbone to the curve of his jaw and nearly taking off his ear. But three times he was able to force both the Cavalier and the Crusader back onto lower ground, keeping them at bay while still managing to dodge the incoming missiles. 

Their battle ranged all over. Each of the Nameless was clearly skilled in their own discipline and Nuada was forced to change tactics and strategy repeatedly just to keep ahead of the blades and points constantly seeking to wound him. During one particularly tense exchange, the wolf-headed Ranger had managed to bite down onto his left arm and had it not been for the fact that the creature had chosen to throw him rather than attempt to swallow him, he was left with two additional broken ribs and several lacerations rather than a missing arm (How oddly fitting that would have been, he would later think).

 _With foot beat of the swift oak_  
_Heaven and earth rung;_  
_'Stout Guardian of the Door'_  
_His name on every tongue._

But the toss and tumble gave Nuada an opening and he was quick on it before the others could regroup. The Wolf Trees of his homeland were the names given to White Oaks, called Dair. When the Ranger turned to snap at him again, he did what the creature did not expect and leapt from the hillock onto the top of the wolf’s head. It was a bit of a struggle but Nuada managed to wrap his legs around the Ranger’s neck just as it attempted to scrape him off, used one hand to grasp onto its floppy left ear, and yanked its head back with as much strength as he could manage without leverage.

The Ranger yowled with a terrifying, hollow, sound but Nuada did not hesitate and plunged the SilverHand into the wolf’s mouth, severing its tongue. And then it too, fell into the bog.

Nuada took a pained breath as he hovered over the vanishing corpse of the Ranger. The battle had gone on for nearly half an hour. He was tiring and was already a little light-headed from blood loss. The wound beneath his right arm was continuing to bleed and if he wasn’t careful, one or both of his broken ribs could move and puncture a lung. And he still had a long way to go. 

_The holly, dark green,_  
_Made a resolute stand;_  
_He is armed with many spear points_  
_Wounding the hand._

_The dower-scattering yew_  
_Stood glum at the fight's fringe,_  
_With the elder slow to burn_  
_Amid fires that singe._

By now, however, he had discerned the Names of the others approaching him. He had only a moment to rest though, and then the fight was again upon him. The Cavalier he would take next, having figured out that he needed to cut off the creature’s hands to defeat it. The Archer fell several minutes later, as Nuada first fought it back onto the edge of the Hill and then took out its eyes as the bones of its feet became tangled in the exposed roots. The Crusader then took him the longest, raining blow upon blow down on him as he set the edge of the SilverHand against the iron shield, over and over again, dragging metal against metal until the sparks of their battle at last lit the straw hair and cracked fibers of the corpse’s threadbare tabard on fire. As it burned, the armor and shield melted away and were snuffed in the blackened water. Nuada spit a mouthful of blood into the grass. Only the Murdered Prince now remained.

Nuada turned and regarded the last of them, standing near the center of the Hill, graced in fine if moldering clothes in red, purple, and gold. His skin was the same color of dark brown possessed by all the Bog Dead but his hair was still long, pale, and bright. His eyes were white and empty, his mouth twisted into a grimace just showing a hint of yellowed teeth and congealed black gums. Around his throat, stretching nearly from pointed ear to pointed ear, an open and weeping gash that still leaked grey muck and lichen. He raised his blade, still a pristine shard of glittering light, unmarred by blood, age, or battle.

_The birch, though very noble,_  
_Armed himself but late:_  
_A sign not of cowardice_  
_But of high estate._

_The heath gave consolation_  
_To the toil-spent folk,_  
_The long-enduring poplars_  
_In battle much broke._

It was clear that the younger Prince of Bathmoora was profoundly wounded. Though he kept the SilverHand still at the ready in his right hand, his left was clasped around the deep cut beneath his arm. His breathing came in a strained wheeze and the stridor of blood in his lungs could be heard with each labored breath. But as the Murdered Prince advanced, he did not find Nuada to be yielding.

“Hello, Brother.” Nuada spoke out. The Fallen stopped, canted his head almost thoughtfully, but raised the starlight blade with menacing intent.

“I know what they did to you.” Nuada went on, noting only in passing a trickle of blood that was now slowly moving down his back. “I know that Men came and they took her. They broke her and there was nothing you could do. Because you were already dead, were you not? They came for you first, because they knew you would defend her. And you did. You did, Brother.”

The Murdered Prince slowly began to lower his blade, continuing to regard his counterpart in silence.

Nuada took another pained breath and continued with what he had left. “And for that reason, I give back to you what they took. The reason you cannot leave this place. I give you back the Memory, the Name, that has been all but almost forgotten. You are Fénius Farsaid mac Boath, are you not? The Prince and the Scholar who once traveled as far as the lands of Scythia to learned the secrets of the Poet’s Language? You were the one who first wrote Ogham into books so that others may learn it and are likely the very reason Mankind knows of our stories at all. You painted tomes that, under the light of the moon, come to life and tell their stories without need of storyteller. And then the last Hunt was called, she came to you, and then you were never seen or heard from again. But she knows you, Brother. When I met her, she spoke of nothing but stories and fables and that’s how I knew it had to be you. You must have been the one who told her, you must be the reason that she loves the old tales so very much. It is because she remembers you, she remembers you still in her dreams. And I promise you, she will remember you for all the time that is still yet to come.”

The Murdered Prince looked sad, his blank white gaze drifting off into the moor as though he were contemplating something of unspeakable sorrow. There was a great and wondrous story here that Nuada didn’t know, but he suspected it was a beautiful one.

“But I am here now and you no longer need to remain.” Nuada stated, with as much vigor as he could muster. “Your trial and your vigil are over. You were murdered unjustly and your Name was stolen. The crown that was rightfully yours was destroyed and they left you to the Bog as they have left so many others who would not submit. Left you, to mind the Wound. But it is over. I am Nuada Neachtain, Tiarna an Dál nAraidi, Maine Mórgor of the House and Line of Bathmoora, son of Balor, heir to the Forge Throne and the Golden Army. Mine is the Birthright of Kings and I have come to heal it.” 

With care born of both injury and caution, Nuada pulled the cloth bundle from his sash, flipped the tie free of it, and let the linen fall away to reveal the alicorn singing out blindingly in his hand. “I have come to heal our people.”

To Nuada’s surprise, the Murdered Prince simply dropped his blade and left it to disappear in the mud as he stiffly turned and began to walk towards the trunk of the great tree. When Nuada failed to follow, he turned back and looked over his shoulder; silently beckoning the other to come with him. Nuada was circumspect but obeyed, walking carefully over the still visible remains of the battle and the other skeletons in attendance. Fénius did not take them far however, and stopped beneath the outstretched branches at the back of the white tree, at the foot of a makeshift stone wall of roots and boulders. There he reached out his hand and laid it gently onto an exposed skull. Nuada did not need to second-guess himself. It was the skull of a unicorn, wedged into the spaces where two granite lodestones were split apart by the taproot.

Nuada felt his breath shaking as he approached. He felt so many things all at once and hardly knew where to begin sorting them out. His vision was hazy with both pain and sorrow, mourning for the Murdered Prince and for the Unicorn, hope for his people and their restoration, pride in the warriors and heroes that had come before him, and something like gentle affection for the girl who had brought him all this way in such a short time. He startled when Fénius reached out a cold hand to him and motioned for him to draw closer. When he did, the Murdered Prince reached out again and touched the wound at his side, appearing to gather some of Nuada’s blood into his leathery palm. When he had done so, the Prince watched as the other poured it out onto the skull and gave a few last fleeting touches to the bridge of the nose and the curve of the empty sockets. With that, Fénius nodded and stepped away, shuffling quietly back out onto the precarious mosses of the moor without so much as a gesture of farewell.

Nuada watched him for a time. Surprised that he did not see the other Prince sink into the swamp again, but rather, he continued to walk towards the horizon, as though he were going off to meet the sunrise.

Nuada turned back to the rocks, roots, and skull. He wasn’t sure precisely what would happen after this but he knew what it was he was supposed to do. The jagged splinters of horn still attached to the center of the skull were already animate; shifting and clicking together as they seemed to anxiously await the joining he would bring about. The Prince raised the alicorn, whose light shone all the brighter, nearly dazzling in its intensity, for where they were. The broken edges at its base had also come alive; its fibrous spirals at the bottom slowly beginning to unravel and taking on something of the appearance of roots themselves, reaching out towards the bone pate only inches away. With a sigh, Nuada stepped forward and brought the two halves together, releasing the alicorn as soon as it had grabbed a hold of its destination.

A brilliant flash followed and a sound like a rushing roar filled his ears. The rocks shook and tumbled. He slid backwards and dropped to his knees, the pounding in his head was more than he could take and the pain in his chest began to overwhelm him. His heart was pounding frantically. There was heat and light and a cacophony of sounds everywhere around him. The world felt as though it were burning away and somewhere in the distance, he heard a voice calling out to him. Someone was calling his Name.

~~**~~

Nuada was unsure how long he was unconscious but when he awoke, he was rather surprised to be staring upwards as a starry sky, looking up through the branches of a great oak tree in full summer leaf. Slowly, painfully, he sat up. Quick stock of the situation told him that, not only was he still alive, but he was still quite seriously injured; though it appeared that he had finally stopped bleeding. Moments later he also came to realize that he was sitting cradled in the roots of the tree, with a light litter of acorns piled around him. He picked one up and examined it briefly but he did not have to glance elsewhere to know that he was not alone. There was someone watching him.

With little preamble, Nuada looked up. Sitting at the base of the tree, on a pile of fallen rocks, staring down at him with a somewhat inappropriate expression of amusement, was a young woman he knew well. She was different though; with smooth, unblemished, pale-white skin and long, silken, white hair in gently curled tresses nearly to her waist. Where cracks and fissures had once scarred her, there was nothing now but a kind of lavender shadowing around her eyes, the tips of her fingers, and a star-like marking on her forehead. She was clad in a simple cotton tunic-dress, barefoot, with only a silver chain and an ugly metallic stone to adorn it. Her eyes were the same, though. Flecked with light and blue-grey as pure water. He could see her clearly, in what he now understood were the first sun-lit rays of dawn spreading out across the flowering meadow behind him. As the sun touched the mosses near his hand, tiny pink flowers began to appear and spread from the bower where he was seated, up along the roots and boulders, to tickle at her outstretched toes. He coughed sorely and smiled.

“Hello, Ailith.”

“Hello, Nuada.”


	16. Chapter 12 - Une Nouvelle Aube

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (This chapter is rated M for adult content. If that’s not your thing, skip this chapter and we’ll pick things up with the next one. Otherwise, you know what to do. – Nas)

_“A New Dawn”_

The combined members of Prince Nuada’s household were fretting, but none more so than the Herald. Some twenty minutes earlier, the High King Apparent and his intended Queen had returned, astride the Hound, to the rooms on the outskirts of the Troll Market. Quietly and seemingly with little fanfare, they had stepped into the Great Hall, greeted the household together, and then retired. Since then, Nylian, the Herald, and WillLily, the bogart, had been directing a complete mess of Fae here and about; seeing to it that the Hound was fed and resting in the main foyer, that each of the Corvids had returned and were accounted for, that food and drink were being set up in the antechambers and bedrooms, and that salves and bandages were being procured in a timely fashion. 

Some hours ago, when Nuala had first cried out in shock while sitting in the library, it was unfortunately clear that she would be sharing in a series of broken bones, severe cuts, and gashes in need of immediate attention. In many ways, Nylian had taken it as a mixed blessing. On the one hand, he could technically monitor the Prince’s progress and general state of being through Nuala’s albeit macabre indications. On the other, it meant that he had to watch his Princess suffer without offer of solace. As the night wore on and the injuries became more pronounced. there had also been great and growing concern that something had gone terribly awry and that the Prince might not actually survive the Hunt. And even now that he had returned (much to everyone’s relief), his subdued demeanor and relative calm indicated that Nuada was hurt more than he was letting on. This was cause for concern.

In the furthest bedroom, the Prince sat with his back to the fireplace, leaning, as was his habit, ever so slightly to his left. Ailith smiled as she picked up a pot of balm from a nearby table and glanced over its ingredients; surreptitiously observing Nuada begin to gingerly rub at the area just below his right arm. He looked almost exactly now as he had in her dream; sitting in the same posture, wearing the same loose linen shirt and black pants, and with the same mildly pensive expression.

With a few kind words, she had finally sent the last of the household servants away, reassuring them all that she would see to Nuada’s injuries and that yes, despite the fact that some of them appeared rather egregious, he would be quite alright. And so would Nuala.

Ailith set the pot back down onto the table and approached Nuada. He raised his head to acknowledge her but said nothing.

“You’ve won.” She smiled, eyeing him thoughtfully. “I would think you’d be feeling more celebratory.”

He made a soft, but bemused, noise in response. “I can assure you, Ailith,” he answered. “I am quite happy, but I am afraid that anything truly triumphant will have to wait until I’ve put myself back together again.”

Ailith almost laughed, imagining a rather grim version of Humpty Dumpty in that moment. On still bare feet, she padded over to next him. She liked the way the dying firelight colored his hair with reds and yellows and the way that the lengthening shadows blended into the darkness around his eyes. What she didn’t like, however, was the deepening purple stain spreading out from the base of his neck and disappearing under his collar to form a bruise that likely extended from his shoulder all the way to his sternum. Ailith tilted her head genially.

“Take your shirt off.”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t move.

“Please.”

With careful, pained, movements, Nuada managed to do as she asked; pulling the garment free over his head and dropping it to the floor at his feet. She appraised him again. The wounds were significant, but nothing beyond her skill to mend.

With tentative and unsure fingers, Ailith finally reached out to him and laid her palm tenderly against his broken collarbone. She could instinctively feel the break, just beneath her hand, shifting ominously from side to side as he breathed. She chanced a look into his eyes and was not surprised to find him watching her intently, his gaze a soft golden color in regards to her. For the moment, she enjoyed the simple contact; feeling the warmth of skin and the rhythmic rise and fall of his breath. Then, as he continued to endure the touch, she released a slow sigh and used her concentration to call upon the light that now freely moved through her, just behind the flesh of her fingers. She summoned it easily and let it flow from where she touched him and into the injury there. Nuada drew in a sharp breath, but remained still as the ancient light and eldritch magics did their work, streaming between them in white-gold threads like glass-dappled sun. She could see the angry purple beginning to fade, could feel the bones knitting back together stronger than before. She could sense him beginning to relax as the pain subsided into a curious heat he wasn’t quite sure how to parse.

Ailith smiled down at him, quite pleased with the results of her work. She met his gaze again, noting the subtle ways in which he seemed both attentive and hesitant. 

With a boldness she would not otherwise have ever demonstrated, but for all that had transpired this night already, Ailith leaned forward and deftly sat down on Nuada’s lap by way of straddling his hips and bringing both arms over his shoulders to steady herself. From there, she was actually able to support most of her own weight by curling the tops of her feet into the sidebars between the legs of the chair. For his part, Nuada seemed slightly surprised but not bothered and simply brought his hands down to rest on the tops of her thighs as she leaned back from him.

As she had thought about doing for so long, Ailith finally reached up and laid her fingertips against the royal scar across the bridge of his nose. Feeling its length and breadth with an amiable touch, she was pleased to find that it did not actually go as deep as it first appeared, instead remaining reasonably superficial as it dipped from one cheekbone to the other in evidence of his rite of passage. 

“I’d rather you not try to heal that one.” He commented offhandedly.

Ailith clicked her tongue in mirthful admonishment and moved on to one of the deeper lacerations just above his eye. Beneath the pad of her thumb, that one too was quickly wiped away; closing without so much as a blemish to indicate where it had once been. The wounds on the side of his face followed until she was able to slide her hand down his neck in a benignly teasing caress. Ailith noticed that his breath hitched slightly but he did not attempt to pull away.

In the flickering light, Ailith began to explore him as she liked. Finally free of barriers and cages, she set about finding all the most sensitive curves and hollows of his chest and back and reading a story in each battle scar and old trauma inscribed on his skin. The lines and cross-hatches read like Ogham and seemed to contain a kind of storyteller’s magic all their own. As she did so, she also took the time to discover each injury and to carefully heal it away with the powers and memories that had only been so recently restored to her. She had so much to tell him beyond this; about herself, about all that had brought them together at this time and place, about the Trees and the Court of the Sun, about the future before them. But, for now, it would all have to wait. The Geas had other demands and it was not keen to wait.

When she arrived at the deep wound beneath his arm, she took the time to soothe the fevered skin and close the cut from the inside out. That way, he wouldn’t risk accidentally reopening it through his normal activities later on. And then the two broken ribs were detected and set, massaged away before ending with a rather pointed stroke to his side. But as the injuries receded, something else was taking their place. In short order, the entire endeavor began to take on a much more sensual aspect to it than either of them had anticipated and Nuada was not unaware of the shift in responses she was starting to draw from him.

Ailith, however, seemed somewhat lost in thought, though she still continued to touch him in increasingly indulgent ways. 

“Nuada, can I ask you an…. awkward question?” 

He couldn’t help but smile. “Of course.”

“I understand twin-sympathy but…I’m not quite sure exactly how far it goes. I mean, I know that you and Nuala share in your wounds and that, in this way, you are also sharing in their healing.” She poked him playfully in the ribs. “But, now that I am here, it concerns me that I might be causing some other…. problems. Especially without something of a prior warning? It just seems…. rude.”

Nuada chuckled lightly. “No. While my sister and I share many things, such experiences as that are not usually one of them. She tends to know where I am and will know my general state of mind. She is also privy to how I might be feeling overall, if she is close enough, but she will not be…. involved. Not in that way. Unless you decide to mark me, that is.”

Ailith couldn’t help the blush that spread across her cheeks at his words and was thankful to the thickening gloom within the chamber for hiding just how bashful it made her look. When he tilted his head back and looked up at her affectionately, however, she had no hesitation in closing the distance into their first kiss.

The Geas was a strange thing, no matter who was subject to it or how. The bonds it formed were powerful, often more so than any other force known to Man or Fae, and, as such, those who experienced it often described the feeling as one-part deep-seated instinct and intuition and one-part inevitable and unchangeable movement of the cosmos. For both Ailith and Nuada, that first kiss could have become a world unto its own; care and concern shifting to hunger and desire that was just as much a reflection of their own passions as it was the next beat in a familiar rhythm that called the world to dance. When it finally broke, Nuada reflexively pulled her as close as possible, lest she try to part from him. He need not have worried, however, as Ailith brought her arms up from his shoulders to loosely wrap them around his neck.

“Ailith.” He started, leaning back slightly to look up into her eyes. “Is this what you want?”

The smile he received in response was mischievous and sly. 

“It is.” She replied, whispering the words against his lips with an impish grin. “If it wasn’t, I would not have taken the time to heal you so carefully. The pain would have stayed you well enough.”

Ailith heard the soft growl as his eyes left her face and drifted down her body. She turned her gaze momentarily to the fireplace behind him, silently willing the embers into an ambient smolder. Beneath her hands she could feel the tension returning to him, feel the sparks of arousal moving up his back and into his shoulders as he leaned into her embrace. His touch, however, remained reticent; controlled. 

He shifted beneath her on the chair, pressing the length of his body against her as his hands slid around her waist to hold her tighter against him. Ailith reached up to card her fingers through his hair and let her head fall forward as she felt the first touch of his mouth against her neck. Taking in his scent, she was pleased to find that he reminded her of woods and rain, and something like the hint of new spring leaves on a cool gust of wind. Before the final battles of the Hunt, she had not been entirely sure she would come to him right away but as she began to delight in the gentle caresses he gave to her hip and back, Ailith reveled in the passion Nuada was coaxing from within her. 

He whispered something into her throat she did not quite catch but the possessiveness in his voice sent unexpected pleasure coursing through her. She felt the growing ache inside of her become more demanding, calling out to him of its own accord along the psychic bonds the Geas was quickly cementing. She no longer even needed to answer him verbally for him to feel and understand that he wasn’t simply being accepted as her mate but beckoned. 

"Nuada." She whispered his name breathlessly in his ear as she felt his hands begin to pull at the stays on the front of her dress, dexterously undoing them, the fabric falling loosely around her as the bindings unraveled. He turned her in his arms slightly away from him, mainly so that he could ease his fingertips under the material, gather it up, and pull it away. With a flirtatious snarl, Ailith grabbed the edges of the bodice before she was bared to him. 

"Oh, no you don’t!" Ailith smirked, nipping him lightly on his bottom lip.

"Don’t what?" he replied blandly, though his amused expression clearly showed that he took this to be a lover’s game. 

"I’ll not have you tearing things off or causing a ruckus." She clucked, airily glaring down at him with no amount of actual reprimand. 

"Very well," Nuada nodded, meeting her gaze calmly. “How will you have me then?” 

With a playfully indignant sniff and a toss of her head, Ailith moved out of his embrace and stood up, holding the dress around her tightly as she walked backward from the chair and further into the room. He sighed deeply, almost contentedly, as she turned from him to allow the dim firelight to play with the shadows weaving across her skin. But his eyes quickly came to life with an ardor that had long been bereft of him as he watched her slowly begin to drop the folds of cloth from her body. Her bare shoulders came first before the smooth, pale, expanse of her back and then the rise of her hips. Even in the darkness, he could still see the characteristic lavender markings down her sides and the star-like dimples in her lower back that indicated the true nature of her otherworldliness. If and when she chose to change her current form to that of the purer state of Nature she was capable of, it would be here that the transformation would begin. From there, the discarded garment revealed her rounded backside as she finally let the dress fall at her feet. She looked over her shoulder at him. 

"Come to me." she stated, suddenly feeling rather bold. In an instant, he had left the chair and crossed the room. Then, she was in his arms and his mouth was over hers and it was desperate and necessary and perfect. The warmth of his skin against hers caused a bit of gooseflesh to rise, or it was the growing excitement of finally feeling him alive and wanting against her. Either way, it really didn’t matter. Ailith immediately took a liking to his strength and quite enjoyed laying into him with a smattering of small bites and kisses for no other reason than to see him respond with an ever increasingly feral drive to possess her.

With a smile, she allowed him to continue roaming exploratorily over her body as she carefully reached forward to undo the ties at the sides of his pants. He had removed his armor, tunic, sash, and boots earlier when the Herald, assisted by the little bogart, had come to collect all the things that needed mending and cleaning. Now, with the loops unthreaded, she was able to simply push the last of his clothing off of him and take in the clean, smooth, lines of his body unhindered. Nuada was, without a doubt, beautiful. He was also built like a great, predatory, cat with a compact, lean frame that did things to her she was sure she had not felt before. 

Leaving the last of their clothing where it had fallen, Nuada gathered Ailith again in his arms, wryly soliciting another kiss as he pulled her into him completely, letting her feel the extent of his excitement pressed to her thigh. Breathy pants were swallowed and regifted, and Ailith began to feel as though her legs would give out beneath her. As if reading her mind, Nuada quickly lifted her, bringing her legs up around his waist, and carried her the last few steps to the edge of the bed. He allowed her then, to slip from his grasp as he laid her down onto the coverlet. She was wan and lovely against the darker bedclothes, her hair spreading out into a glittering halo around her head. He did not leave her for long though, and gracefully descended down over her body so that he might lean in to kiss her once more. Her fingernails dug sharply into his shoulders as she tried to pull him flush against her. With a stifled laugh, he rolled his back so as not to allow her good purchase against him.

“I told you.” Nuada remarked softly, his mouth still barely in contact with hers. “If you mark me, I can make no promises about any potential…. rudeness.”

Ailith huffed and growled at him with a measure of annoyance and frustration she didn’t remotely feel. But instead of arguing with him further, she settled for enticing him back into an ardent kiss. The unmasked need and desire in his kisses felt like he had stolen the fire from the hearth and was using it to burn away her very core; her insides beginning to twist and torment her as he left her lips to trace a line down her neck and onto her chest. She moaned deep in her throat as he continued his way down, tasting her body and taking a hard nipple between his teeth. She squealed at the new sensation and bucked her hips against his, which, unbeknownst to her, had a remarkably strong effect on him. For the second time since their return, she called his name.

Nuada lavished attention and affection everywhere he went. He lingered on her breasts before moving on to a particularly sensitive spot along her ribs, her fingers threading through his hair as his mouth found each dip and rise. Moments later, she felt his hand drift down between her legs, brushing his fingers lightly over her before he parted her delicate folds to press the flat of his thumb against her. She was wet and ready for him, but he did not take the touch further. 

Ailith wasn’t sure, in that moment, if he was teasing her or testing her. She felt her like her entire body was so wound up she could just explode and she wanted far more of him right now than he was giving. She twitched beneath him, wanting to lure him upwards again, to move him into a more compromising position where she might fit him against her fully. She felt Nuada chuckle against her, the vibration causing her legs to tremble and her heart to begin racing in her chest.

"Had enough already?" His velvety voice washed over her with the heat of his breath and she knew that if he really wanted it, he could keep her like this all day. But she was not the only one whose blood was being driven by the call of the Geas and the Geas would take no quarter. The time of the Feis was upon them.

"Nuada, please," she gasped, surprised at how raw her voice was.

Nuada raised his head and watched her for a moment; this being, this woman, who was near to driving him into madness and yet who had taken him from madness. He marveled at how her body sang at his touch, pliant and soft beneath his hands, and in that moment, he could not recall any other lover but her. The need to join with her, to mate, was also becoming overwhelming and as much as he might have wanted to draw out their coupling, to show her how much pleasure he could give her and to bond with her in the exchange, there was no chance of it right now. Not this first time, with the turning of Spring and Summer dragging them both along and into the maelstrom.

He moved back up her body, his lips meeting hers again in a surprisingly gentle kiss as he settled himself onto her, his manhood pressed against her center intimately. Ailith parted her thighs readily and began to move her hips gently against him, stroking him with the wetness there before whispering into his neck.

“Please.” 

Nuada gripped her hips and entered her with a single sure stroke. Her cry was muffled as she bit down on his shoulder, her fingernails embedding deeply into his back. It caused him to murmur lowly but he did not try to withdraw. He would likely be paying for it later but for the time being, to feel his lover stretched out underneath him, near delirious, had his heart beating hard against his chest and his mind spiraling into a white fog. He shifted his weight onto his knees and kept his grip on Ailith’s hips as she wriggled against him for a tighter fit and crossed her ankles over the backs of his thighs in an effort to keep him as close as possible. 

As she finally relaxed into his hold, Nuada growled before pulling out of her slowly and then lunging back in. She gasped loudly, nails digging harder into his skin and leaving crescent-shaped bruises she would be embarrassed to see later. Ailith did her best to remain receptive beneath him as he began to move within her, stroke after stroke of sheer ecstasy arcing through her body and threatening to twist her out of his grasp. Every time he left her and then reseated himself with each full, unrelenting, thrust, she felt as though she might break right out of her own skin and leave her body to his desires. Nuada was a passionate lover, however, despite his normally hostile outward demeanor and he was careful not to take her too harshly. 

In truth, he had rather expected this part to be quick. Mainly because he had not anticipated her truly wanting him and had certainly not envisioned her so openly inviting him to lay with her in this way. If past stories of the Feis were any indication, he figured that they might come together for a brief moment somewhere in the reaches of the woods after the Hunt or near to where she would eventually go off to live. But certainly nothing like this. Now, her hands drifted over his sides as he continued to have her, enjoying the play of muscles in his torso as they worked to keep them both steady. They were awed at how they could also feel each other’s desires: his want to press them into a deeper, stronger rhythm and her need for him to keep close against her. But he resisted, only for the fact that he was already so close to losing himself. In response, she caught his bottom lip between her teeth, biting gently before letting go. 

Nuada moaned as she clenched around him, blithely smiling up at him before she dropped her hands onto his lower back and pressed her fingers into the muscles near his spine. It took a little effort to get him to move in the particular way she wanted him to, by raising his chest up and using the leverage of his thighs against her to achieve a depth and angle he had not been able to before. His breathing also quickly told her that this position was especially good for him and, if she was being honest, it was because she wanted to see his face as he came undone inside her.

Their eyes met as she took him all the way in again, his hands moving up her thighs to her hips and then onto the bed on either side of her so that he would not fall onto her as he moved. He began his impassioned rhythm again, but this time harder and deeper than he had previously. Ailith grabbed a hold of where ever she could, rocking back and then forward in time with him, even as she felt him moving solidly within her. His breath caught in his throat.

"Ní …féidir liom…” She heard him moan fervently. It was in his native tongue, but she understood him. He was close to his breaking point and wouldn’t be able to hold out much longer. It was probably all well and good, she thought absently. Healed or not, they were both near to exhaustion and he was about to be utterly spent.

"Nuada, mo iontach Nuada." She whispered in his ear before biting down along the ridge of his jaw. Their bodies were slick with sweat as he moved but she continued to take him deeply, the friction and fullness she felt absolutely exquisite. Suddenly, Nuada reared his head back to look into her eyes, the tips of their noses touching almost tenderly before he surged in for a kiss. It was primal and messy but wonderfully exciting and before she knew it, Ailith was being pressed down hard into the mattress. Nuada thrust into her with an instinctual urgency, his hands holding her still and close against him as he arched his back and tried desperately to take in enough breath. It was all Ailith could do just to hold onto him for dear life for the next several minutes before he took them both screaming over the edge. It came upon her abruptly and Ailith nearly sobbed with the force of her release; her body contracting and then shattering beneath him, calling out to him as she lost all sense of time or place or meaning. 

Then, her nails dug lines into his back and Nuada had no choice but to follow her; the first crest of his release tearing through him and leaving him senseless when his body began pulse inside of her as he climaxed; giving over every last bit of his essence he had left to give. The cry that burst from him was almost a shout but he managed to muffle it somewhat by clenching his teeth and burying his face into Ailith’s hair. For several minutes, they could do nothing but cling to one another and ride out the crashing waves of ecstasy that kept them tied together and left them a trembling wreck in the aftermath. 

A chill passed through the room as they collapsed against one another, staying close as they tried to calm their breathing and regain their bearings. The fire was nearly non-existent and, at some point, one of them was going to have to get up to stoke it for the rest of the evening. Ailith decided, however, that neither of them would be getting up just yet and reached down to pull the blankets over the both of them as her lover withdrew from her and settled onto his side. Any thoughts of the Hunt or the days before it had temporarily left Ailith as she held Nuada, who was pressing gentle, open-mouthed kisses to her temple and neck.

"Are you alright?" he whispered, cradling her, wrapped securely in the warmth and the darkness.

Ailith pulled back slightly and looked at him. “Yes. I’m quite fine, I think.” 

"You think?" 

"It’s been a crazy couple of days." 

He chuckled at that. “Yes, I suppose it has. But now it is done. You needn’t worry about it again.”

Ailith at first looked concerned, then increasingly confused. "What do you mean?" she asked. 

“The Hunt is over.” Nuada answered. “The way forward is set but I certainly don’t expect you to accompany me along it. The vagaries of duty being what they are. You are, of course, welcome to remain here as long as you wish. I will always look out for you and I will always be here if you need me.”

Ailith turned and scowled at him. His tone was odd, almost sad. But after a moment’s thought, she suddenly understood the thinking hidden behind his words. “Now who is it not seeing things for what they are?”

Nuada raised an eyebrow tentatively, noting with some worry that Ailith was tensing up while still pressed so intimately close to him. “Oh?”

Ailith nodded indignantly. "Indeed.” She quipped, rolling such that she could push him onto his back and balance herself on his chest. “By right of Geas, Nuada Neachtain, Tiarna an Dál nAraidi, you belong to me. Maine Mórgor and Airgeatlámh, you are mine.”

He smiled and carefully leaned up to give one last lingering kiss to her lips. 

“I am that.” He soothed, pulling her down deeper into the bed against him as they both began to relax and drift off. “I am that.”


	17. Chapter 12 (Addition) - Vignette

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (The last chapter went way over my typical word count. Here’s the rest of it. Still rated M, though. Obviously. – Nas)

It was late morning when Ailith awoke but the room was still quiet and dark, so she didn’t have much of a sense of what time it was. At some point during the night, someone had come in and restoked the fire, which now burned brightly in the hearth. Crackling warmly, she could distinctly hear the hissing and popping of new logs as they settled into place. Aside from that, the only other sounds in the room were the low hum of a forge vent high in the stones overhead and the gentle whisper of Nuada’s breathing.

Buried somewhere beneath the blankets, she smiled despite herself. He was still pressed against her; lying on his side facing her, with his chin resting on the top of her head. The deep, slow, breaths she could feel raising his chest told her that he was still completely, and quite comfortably, asleep.

Snuggled against him, with her cheek just above his heartbeat, Ailith sighed with contentment. Quiet, contemplative, moments like these were few and far between with Nuada but for the time being it was just nice to enjoy the intimacy and the unmistakable show of trust from a man not especially given to easy companionship. It was intensely satisfying to have him so close; to feel him like this, where no one else could reach him but her. Careful not to disturb him, she brought tentative fingers up to absently trace a deeply scarred line that started just above his hip and ended near his tailbone. It must have been a horrific wound in its time but it was old and faded now.

There were several of these scars she took the moment to gently follow. One traversed his midback to his shoulder blade and another curved around his lower ribs to his stomach, where she found it especially gratifying to leave the mark and run the back of her knuckles several times against the musculature of his abdomen. From there her hand lazily drifted up his chest and onto the side of his neck. When Nuada then casually reached up and entwined his fingers with hers, she blushed.

“Did I wake you?”

“Yes. But I don’t mind.”

She stroked his hand, nuzzling into him when he tilted his head to look down at her.

“What were you thinking about?” He asked, his voice still soft and relaxed from sleep.

“Oh, I wasn’t really.” She snuffled. “Just enjoying the peace and quiet.”

“Hm.”

“And…just noticing some of these, I guess.” She touched the scar at his hip again. “Where did this come from?”

“Bayonet.” He replied.

She stopped short and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “A what?”

“Bayonet.” He repeated. “It was during the first Great War. We were raiding the castle ruin Rötteln near Lörrach for the vestments that had been stolen from the Autumn Court the year before. The resistance was better prepared than I was anticipating.”

She fingered the raised flesh again, feeling the subtle roping of the scar tissue as it twisted into the muscle. These scars told stories indeed!

“And this one?” She swept up his side to indicate the wound at his back.

“A rock fall, actually. On the slopes of Hvannadalshnjúkur.”

She scowled. 

“In Iceland.” He clarified.

“What were you doing there?”

Nuada smiled and brought his hand down to caress her face where it still laid against his chest. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you sometime. If you really want to hear it.”

She did, but at that particular moment, what she wanted even more was for him to continue touching her. With a sigh, she reached out again and with more obviously sensual purpose, began to stroke his back; drawing light fingernails up along his side until she could feel the skin beneath tense in response. When he shifted, she happily writhed against him.

“Ailith.” Came the resulting growl. “What are you doing?”

She smirked; her face pressed down so that he couldn’t see it. “I want you again.”

“Ah. Well, then…” A phrase which turned out to be a complete sentence as Ailith felt her lover raise up so that he could pull her further beneath him. It also wouldn’t have mattered if he’d had anything else to say either way, as he was cut off when she pressed her mouth to his, stealing both his words and his breath.

They had kissed before, but there was something new in this one: the first tentative expressions of love. Ailith put her hands on either side of Nuada’s face and tried to deepen the kiss, pulling him down to her. It took him a moment to respond, as it seemed it always did, but once he regained a semblance of momentary control he gently pulled back, breaking the contact.

“Álainn.” He whispered. His familiar language once again slipping through as his excitement rose. “Agus mise.” (Gaelic: Lovely. And mine.)

Her hands did not leave the sides of his face as she searched his eyes. In them, she found a tumult of emotions; deep, raw emotions that he had only rarely given voice to. Nuada was somewhat cursed in this way. He would always have a war waging between his mind and his heart, even in the moments when he was at rest.

“It’s alright,” Ailith whispered, her hands moving back to tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck. “You don’t have to fight here. You’ll never have to fight here.” She kissed him again softly, and this time he did not resist being drawn to her. Nuada had never felt the need for physical contact so much more that he did now. Before Ailith, he had usually rejected such offers or had taken what little comfort he could from his connection to Nuala. But now, he could drown in her; in the sensations of her body against his, in her arms, in her mouth, or inside of her.

He kissed her back; first gently, then urgently. She delighted in running her thumbs over his ears and he growled; a deep, primal sound at the back of his throat. She caressed the soft points, and his heart began to race faster. He wanted this almost as much as she did, it would seem. Somehow, they managed to reposition without breaking the contact. His hands slid up the insides of her thighs, encouraging her to open up to him quickly as he settled on top of her again, and hers alternated between stroking his neck and touching his ears. It was a little unnerving; he had not thought that they would be so sensitive for something like this.

Ailith broke their kiss long enough to take in a sharp breath and calm herself beneath him. Nuada soothed her with gentle, compassionate, touches; her rounded hips and angular shoulder blades grew prickly as his fingers delicately danced over heated skin. She shivered involuntarily when he breathed softly into her ear, “I need you.”

She grabbed his face and kissed him once more, and his hands slowly slid up from where they had been resting on her hips to brush against her breasts. Her skin burned beneath his fingertips, and when he cupped her in his hands, she pressed her chest into him with an arch of her back, thoroughly enjoying the press of his weight against her. His eyes had gone dark with passion as looked to her for guidance in their next steps and she simply nodded ever so slightly to answer his silent question.

Nuada pushed himself up by his arms on either side of her head; both so that he could watch her but also so that she could watch him. She put her hands on the curve of his spine as he leaned down to kiss her again, pressing his forehead against hers.

“Are you ready?” he asked, his voice shaking a little.

“Yes.” she agreed, moving her hands downwards slightly to rest on his lower back.

He took her slowly this time; easing in to her and allowing her time to get used to the feel of him as they joined. She was tight and hot and he savored the ability to appreciate each sensation now while the Geas did not have such an overwhelming hold on him. After a moment of stillness, he slowly withdrew himself part-way, enjoying the way she hissed as he did so. Her fingernails dug into his backside as she pulled him back to her; he thrust forward again, and she gasped.

They began to move together, creating a slow, steady, rhythm that built back on itself as each moved in time with the other. She braced her hips to meet him as he moved; both offering up muted gasps and moans as they reached new heights of pleasure. Ailith’s moans slowly became louder, and she buried her face in his neck to try to quiet them. She needn’t have done so. The sounds she made as he slid in and out of her were precisely what he wanted to hear and the soft mewls she gave into his skin had him near to breaking.

Within minutes, she was close to her end however, and her rhythm faltered as she desperately tried to urge him to go faster. Nuada complied, taking her quickly but maintaining the full measure of each thrust so that she would be forced to take him in completely before he withdrew again. It was exactly what she needed and Ailith gasped his name as her eyes fluttered closed and she clenched her body around him.

He continued to move inside her while she climaxed, drawing it out for as long as he could for her. One of her hands was buried in his hair, the other digging into his side on just the edge of painful but even he was hard-pressed not to moan in response to the tight contractions of her body around him. After a few moments, he heard her sigh in his ear as she went limp beneath him. He wrapped his arms around her, without removing himself from her, and held her close as she tried to steady her breathing.

“Dear gods…” she said at last, “…Nuada?” She realized that he was still inside her, and still hard. His breathing was also strained and she could detect a slight tremble in his shoulders where he maintained his balance. He was clearly near to release but why hadn’t he? Why had he gone so still?

“Why didn’t—”

“I wanted to see you.” he told her, his voice breathless and his pale skin flushed.

“And I didn’t want to…” He stopped talking when Ailith suddenly pushed him forcefully sideways. They rolled ungracefully over, tangling into the blankets, but ending up so that she was on top of him. She had even managed to keep him inside of her, despite the fact that she had nearly taken them both right off the side of the bed.

“Well then,” she smiled down at him, delighting in the look of relative surprise on his face. “I think it’s finally my turn to see you.”

He bit back a playful growl. “If that is what you want, my lady.” He was a little uneasy with the way she was grinning at him but if Ailith wanted to take her pleasure from him in this manner, he had no real objection. She leaned over him and touched his ear with her fingertip, tracing up from his earlobe, along the edge, to the point.

“It is.” she whispered into it.

Their rhythm started up again, and Nuada’s hands found Ailith’s hips as he clung to her, demanding that she move with him, though she would have anyway. He was trying as hard as he could to temper his responses. He was so much stronger than she was and he didn’t want to accidently hurt her by completely losing control. But the Wild in his blood was quickly overtaking him again and his instincts were driving him harder into passionate abandon. He didn’t know where this reckless and frenzied need to possess her was coming from, but the necessity of their mating was near to defeating him utterly.

“Let go,” she breathed into his ear, as though she were reading his mind. Nuada squeezed his eyes shut, trying to resurface from whatever depths he was descending into. He was awash in the heat of passion; drowning in desire as he tried to move with her without being too rough. Gasping for what would feel like his last breaths, without losing himself to the darkness. Preparing to give up his entire life force to her if that was what was asked of him.

But he was too far. He had balanced so precariously on the edge for too long and he could no longer hold back the tide. Roughly, Nuada lifted Ailith up and pushed her back into the bed, then picked up the pace even more than before. All he could hear was their desperate heartbeats, and the sharp impact of each thrust against her as she could do nothing but accept him. All he could feel was her body against the length of his; her tight, wet walls convulsing around him, her breath on his cheek, her hands in his hair. All he could do was move with her, on her, inside of her.

Suddenly, he was lost to it all and he climaxed, coming harder than he had known before; growling her name and several other indelicate words in his own language. With every last bit of his strength, he gave his seed in long, agonizing, pulses that left him senseless and irrational. It felt like it went on forever. When it finally released him, he collapsed on her, not even having the wherewithal afterward to shift his weight so as not to pin her.

Nuada felt as though he hadn’t slept in weeks, which, for the Fae was not necessarily impossible but was considered to be rather unhealthy. He was so tired and his body had begun to ache to the point of utter exhaustion. But, behind all of the pain and weariness, he found himself to be uncharacteristically happy. He felt almost elated. The ecstasy he had felt in this night and day of pleasure lingered as pinpoints of light in his mind, bringing a small smile to his lips as he finally pulled himself off of his lover and moved back to her side.

His mouth turned to a frown when he saw the teeth marks on her shoulder that he didn’t remember giving her, and the already-purpling bruises along her hip where he had dug in his fingers and held on to her as he had reached his peak. But, though she noted his concern, Ailith only smiled up at him with a bemused kind of look.

“It’s ok.” She chuckled. “I’ve given you a fair number of them that I am sure Nuala will be scolding me about later.”

“Perhaps.” He calmed, bringing his hand up to rub gently at the worst of them. “I’m sure she’ll be none too pleased about being woken up at odd hours by all this as well.”

Ailith looked askance at him, smiling wryly despite his ruminative tone.

“Well, I’ll make it up to her somehow later.” Ailith turned to face Nuada again and gleefully snuggled back into his chest beneath the warm blankets he was in the process of pulling back over the both of them.

“Hm.” Was his only reply as she felt him begin to relax again and soften into sleep once more.

But as the room quieted again, Ailith twitched and startled. There was a sound coming from somewhere far in the distance. She reflexively pulled Nuada close, who, for his part, did not seem to notice anything amiss and who merely responded by absently wrapping her in his arms as he continued to drift off. But there it was again. Far away. Indistinct. Like the sounds of people talking in hushed tones more than two rooms away. Ailith glowered unseen but tried again to discern where the sound was coming from.

Soon enough it began to fade away again and she wondered whether or not she had actually heard it at all. It was just a few repeated syllables, from what she could make out. Like a Name. Like all the Names she knew that arose out of her senses and perception. But a Name that was not quite a Name. It was as though the world was beginning to speak something new into existence and had just then trailed off into other thoughts. A Name that was half-formed, not quite put together just yet…. coming from somewhere…arising out of nothingness…. deep in her own subconscious mind.


	18. Chapter 13 – Le Couronnement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Thank you all so much for reading and reviewing this work. I was not expecting to essentially write a novel in the span of only a few short months, but such is the testament to inspiration, motivation, and engaged readers. Obviously, that’s it for this story. That’s not to say, though, I that I won’t ever revisit this world or that I won’t write more for Nuada and Ailith in the future. But for now, please enjoy À Mon Seul Désir in its entirety, completed and whole as stories go. Cheers, everyone! – Nas)

_“Coronation”_

Nuada Airgeatlámh had ceased to exist. At least, in a very unconventional sense. The mended pieces of a life less ordinary bore little resemblance to the one the Fae Prince had lived only a short time before. In exile, neither Homer nor Camus would have been worthy to tell his story but now, with a future before him that could be called promising and a moment at hand which any would call victorious, he had every reason to look upon the last half of his life, not as an inevitable procession into ultimate annihilation, but the destined path towards renewal. For the collective Seelie and Unseelie Courts, no amount of forewarned doom could dampen the hope of reunification from the moment the Hunt had ended and the High King Apparent had made himself known. Now, instead of the anguished cries of Fae in the grips Undoing, there was only jubilation; the exultant, proud, and wholly unexpected end to a magnificent saga. 

Having been bestowed with a new Name and having recovered fully from both his encounter with Death and the Hunt, Nuada both was and was not himself. Most notably, his temper had subsided somewhat, in favor of a more direct kind of hostile diplomacy. As such, Nuada had also been true to his word and had begun discussions and negotiations with the Others; first brokering several tentative agreements between the night-stalking Dead and the Mages of the uptown chantry. The Fae, if nothing else, were once again becoming a force to be reckoned with and not merely forgotten to the churning vagaries of an indifferent cosmos. He still trained his martial skills most early mornings but spent his evenings and nights largely in the company of his burgeoning Household or with Ailith, with whom the bonds of love and affection were ever growing. He was also well-known for occasionally building the odd mystic device or two, usually in response to a need somewhere, but his demeanor had become far more personable and there were times where one might have almost called him good-natured. 

Having accepted the rite of ascension, Nuala, on the other hand, was poised to become Queen of Bathmoora. A role she seemed undoubtedly both ready for and completely shocked she was actually taking on. As he had been born several minutes before her, Nuada had always been the presumed heir to their father’s throne but now that he had secured the birthright of the High Kingship and had been bonded into the Court of the Sun, she had much to plan for. And not just for herself.

In the three weeks that it had taken to arrange everything necessary for the Rite of High Coronation, the Fae had also already begun to see an unprecedented resurgence. There was, quite simply, magic in the world once more. Old pacts and Bargains now had a strength and weight to them they hadn’t in an Age. The tricks and boons of Glamoury were demonstrating effects many of the younger Fae had only ever read about. And where the Fairest now gathered, there were signs of their presence everywhere; in new studios and bookshops, new subversive works of art or revolutionary writing, and in sidelong discussions of philosophy and meaning that were quickly gaining ground in both political and academic circles. Whatever new dawn lay just peeking over the horizon was unprecedented indeed.

Above it all, Ailith sat quietly in the grass, on the side of a large hill, contemplating everything that had come to pass since the first moment a lovely Baroque statue of a lady had come to life in the room down the hall from her. How late-night conversations in the library of B.P.R.D. with a tragic Princess had led to late-night conversations in the cell-block with an even more tragic Prince. How those tragedies had then transformed into something else, some new possibility for life and redemption she’d hardly known she’d needed. How she had come to learn of herself, in learning of him. In so many ways, she actually did miss those times in the dim light of his prison, when they had talked about all manner of things, literary or otherwise. They still talked of such things now, of course, but it had been awe-inspiring to watch the changes taking hold in him. 

With a contented sigh, Ailith absently reached down to stroke her stomach again. The fact that Nuada had sired a child had come as a shock to the Fae world, but none more so than to Nuada himself. He had taken the news with a measure of astonishment and even apprehension at first but in the few days since then, he had come to regard both his mate and his coming child with a depth of affection that far exceeded his sense of duty. She wrinkled her nose in benign amusement. So that’s what the Geas was intending when those first lilting sounds of a new and unformed Name had crept into her consciousness. Nuala, on the other hand, was positively beside herself with excitement. From what Ailith could tell, she was already planning any number of games, toys, and outfits she would get to use with a little one in the household. The birth of a new royal heir was a rare event and Nuala clearly had every intention of making the most of it. Despite how he might feel about some of her more outlandish suggestions though, Nuada had done the intelligent thing and had not argued with his sister about any of it.

Ailith had also not told him yet that she knew one especially important thing about what had transpired that night. In that she knew the Name of his son. 

Áedan Glas. MacNuada Finn Fáil. MacBalor Gialchadh. The King of the Morrow.

She could hear it, even now, thrumming through her in conversation with the world. But before it was his time, the seasons of Nuada’s rule as High King would come to pass and if she had read the omens right, they would be years of plenty if not necessarily of peace. In short, there was much yet to befall the world and the wars and conflicts of Mankind still held a deep foreboding for all of them. Great calamities would still need to be overcome before the Golden Age of the High Kingship could be foretold again. The great castle on the Hill of Tara would have to be rebuilt. The Lia Fáil, the Speaking Stone, would have to be restored to its foundations. She smiled regardless. Because one does not argue with a fairy tale. It is tautology in art form.

The stone on her pendant was, indeed, that which would speak the Name of the King and, once Nuada had been crowned, would be forever enshrined, where it belonged, on the Hill of Tara. It had been hidden with her, in a carousel necklace, by the very same forces that had preserved the alicorn and her own fragmented self in wait of the next great Hunt. One last chance for her, one last chance for Nuada, and one last chance for the Fae. The Geas was nothing if not clever. And then, upon the outer boundaries of the Hill, the foundations of the fortress that would become their home would also be built. Which, as it turned out, was precisely where she was currently sitting.

A few loud shouts alerted her to the arrival of the rest of the Elven courts near the top of the hill. The gathering had begun several hours ago with the arrival of the royal houses of Ireland, Scotland, and the UK. The royal houses of the Americas, Russia, and the Mediterranean had arrived the night before, along with the many bloodlines of the Aois-dàna from Scandinavia and the Arctic. Even delegates from the Himalayas and from the Courts of the East were in attendance, along with their servires and progeny of all kinds. The summit of Tara was already festooned with banners and floating thistledown lights, rugs and carpets from every conceivable place in the world, food and as much drink as they could manage, and all manner of anxious Fae awaiting sundown, when the Others were also set to arrive.

With a huff, Ailith got to her feet and began the slow trudge back up to the top. Back to the Sael, the Gathering on the Hill. Despite her general adoration of the Fae peoples, she had to admit she was really looking forward to meeting the Others. Through Nuada’s talks, she had finally met the young vampire by the name of Gabriel and his companion and lover, the mage called Nicholas Cooper. Cooper, she had found to be pleasant enough; grounded and thoughtful in the way that life-long scholars often were. Gabriel, on the other hand, had fascinated her endlessly. He was more mercurial than his partner, but possessed of a keen mind, a dry wit, and a long view and she had enjoyed teasing him about his conscription into the Hunt. The former traits he attributed however, at her asking, to his relationship with another of his own kind; an elder and also his own sire, who went only by the name of Auralian. She had been promised that she might meet this elder tonight, at Nuada’s Coronation.

She was grateful to find him still nearby, and as she crested the hill and rejoined the members of the King’s Household in the tents set up near the ruins, Nuada came through the crowd to meet her. He looked dashingly spectacular (thanks, she believed, to Nuala’s influence). He wore a simple blue kaftan coat with fine embroidery around the hems and sleeves and a sash in a darker blue to match it. The emblem of the Triskele, the three-wheeled spirals emblazoned in silver, was the only real ornamentation he otherwise wore with it, likely due to the fact that Nuada had never been especially partial to jewelry or precious gems. The Crown would come later, since the most recognizable mark of the High Kingship was something that was grown out of the first brambles and leaves of Spring and not made by hand. The tunic beneath was black and it set against his darker features in amazing ways that already had her lamenting that she would not again be able to be with him alone until at least a day or two from this one. The bustle of the Court and Household around them continued unabated.

“There you are.” He commented. “I was beginning to worry.”

Ailith smiled brightly and smoothed her hands down over her own blue gown and sash. “Nothing to worry about.” She replied. “I was just getting some fresh air.”

“Is everything alright?” He eyed her suspiciously. Since revealing to him that they had conceived, Nuada had become intuitively protective and rarely let her out of his sight for very long; and especially not in large assemblies. 

“Everything is fine.” She soothed, giving him a mirthful look. “Are you ready for this?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Though I don’t suppose I ought to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“Of all the ways I imagined that this might end, it wasn’t at all like this. When Nuala killed the both us, as far as I could see, it was the final confirmation that our doom was inevitable. That Winter was upon us, that our blood was spent, and that all the world was truly destined to fade and descend into despair.”

“Hm.” She acknowledged. “I can understand that. But now?”

“Now?” He smiled. “Now, I’m not entirely sure what happens. But, whatever it is, it bodes well. We may yet see another Summer and that isn’t something I believed was possible.”

“So, does this mean the Warrior-Prince is ready for peace?”

“The Warrior-Prince is no longer the Warrior-Prince, I’m afraid. And a King should always be ready to offer peace.”

She laughed at his playful tone and stepped into him easily as he wrapped his arms around her again. The kiss that followed was gentle and tender.

“You’re not the King, yet.” She murmured into his neck. “The Name has not been spoken.”

“Does my lady require anything else of me before she speaks it?”

Ailith leaned back and pondered for a moment. “I do.” She announced, earning a curious look from Nuada in response.

“Once the castle of Tír fo Thuinn is rebuilt, I want to restore the forest, the Ildathach, that once surrounded it. When the Hill of Tara is opened, there will be magics enough to see it through. I want him born there.”

Nuada tilted his head thoughtfully. “Him?”

“Yes.” She sniffed happily. “Him.”

With a slow, even, nod, Nuada agreed. “Then it shall be so. Anything else?”

“No.” Ailith replied. “But if WillLily gets any more anxious over there, he might explode. And that’s never a good thing for a bogart. I think it’s time we faced the Stone.”

“Yes, it is time.” He concluded. “It is, at last, our time.”

**FIN**


End file.
